The Slow Falling of a Tree

There is an ancient riddle
involving a tree
and a forest
and perhaps a sound.

I wasn't there
so I didn't hear,
but I think
I found the answer
in the clapping of one hand.

What is the riddle, then
of barbed wire
and flames
and a growing silence?

The answer may be found
in numbers etched
into soft flesh;
in acrid smoke
rising to heaven;
and the slow falling
of a tree.

And if the tree were chopped,
If the hand were bound
If the silence grew,
minute by minute by hour by day
by heart and soul
until it covered the land,

Would it matter,
do you think?
I wasn't there
I didn't hear.
Perhaps it never happened
after all.