In a time when wars are knocking at every door, in the commotion of sirens and alarms,
I stop time. I beseech nature. The greater the acceleration, the more I slow down.
I enter slow motion. I seek portals.
In these moments of utter destruction,
with tons of debris from rockets and missiles suffocating the earth,
who do we call upon? Who protects what remains?
 Who safeguards the plant world so that it may endure
beyond devastation, for generations to come?
Druids appear through the portal,
white-bearded, dressed in flowing garments.
They listen. They listen to the plant world.
They listen to each living organism. Which will withstand uprooting?
Which will remain? Which will choose to sacrifice themselves for others? The druids do not decide. They follow. They serve nature’s own wishes.They take what can be carried. They gather what can be saved.
They nurture. They protect.
They wrap these plants in time capsules, hidden in secret, faraway places,
so that one day, when the carnage has ceased,
they may return, home.