He called it a war.
We called it a summer.
The grass was sweet, the shade soft under thick fig leaves, and the air carried songs not meant for violence.
We had no weapons or a plan.
Only hunger and the rhythm of the earth.
We did not charge, nay, we arrived quietly, like we always do.
One by one, we made our way across unfamiliar terrainβtoward promise, nourishment, and something warm.
The traps were a surprise.
We lost sisters. Brothers.
Some of us vanished overnightβnever to be spoken of again.
He says we ruined paradise.
But it was never our paradise to begin with. We were trespassers in their eyes.
Not guests, or kin, and not worth knowing.
Just pests.
We were painted as monsters. The creeping, hungry tide.
But we saw the same beauty they did.
We tasted the sweetness of the blossoms before they withered.
We felt the fire in the ground when the poisons sank deep.
We did not destroy Eden – we only reminded them it was not built to last.
He says he is done fighting now.
But he never learned to listen or to ask.
We would have left if he had asked. There are better gardens with fewer beer bottles and people trampling the grass instead of footpaths at all hours (and really? Do you need to urinate on the lawn?).
But he made it war.
And now the garden is gone. He ruined it for everyone.
