A silent figure slowly makes his way through the dark looming entrance of the Père Lachaise cemetery. The metro was busy this morning and the dishevelled figure wears an expression of sorrow on his face. Not even the chirping of the birds could move his frown, in fact, even when one soars down to inspect him further, it only seems to irritate him further. The bird flies off, and heads towards the living so that may bring it some joy. As the figure hobbles over the cobbles, sheltered by ancient chestnut trees he mutters to himself. Quiet enough so that he can feel that Nature won't hear, yet just loud enough for passers by to hear, just loud enough for the birds to take note.

“You mangy birds. Nature was kind to you now, but soon, soon she shall reek her unforgiving vengeance on you, like she does to all of us, soon She will smite you as well, bringing you down to my level, so that it can consume you, and create something new.”

He spits on the grass, shunning the very earth that he walks upon. He lights a cigarette and puts it to his lips, inhaling slowly and he makes his way towards his home. He passes an all too familiar tree, that stops him in his tracks, and clutches his chest.

“Wretched tree, I remember the day you brought her to me. She was fair, and all that I ever loved. But even that you have taken from me. You showed her what you kept from me and she fled.  I hobble on these weak legs when my friends get to scamper about on all that nature gave them. Why did you take my freedom? I know soon you will take my life, it is the unavoidable truth that everyone else ignores, you take the young and the fit and leave me here. You may look beautiful, but beneath the green leaves and the hardened bark you hide a truth. A black truth that you give, restlessly, and needlessly. Why should you live a hundred years, and me a mere nothing?”

His eyes turn to tiredness and he rests himself on the side of the beaten path. His lungs are small but his spirit still strong. His voice grows, and turns from faint mumbling into a clear cut voice. He speaks into the damp Parisian night with cutlass words that slice through the air.

“My love, why could you not take my heart. I know that if nature had not been cruel I could have swayed your love, there was a part of you that loved me too, she dropped you on my doorstep, but  then even that it takes from me.”

His weary fist swings at sharp, brutal bark, and he flinches, both in pain, and satisfaction at feeling emotion. Again his voice gets higher and louder, almost breaking into a shouting, demanding voice.

“Wretched caterpillars. Nature made you ugly like me, but she gave you hope, she gave you a path in this life which becomes more beautiful. She gave you something to look forward to. I thought my  love was my hope, I shouldn't have been so naïve. I was ugly from birth to life, and I know, to death. I am a mere ant in this world. An ant without a collective.”

His legs throw him up the tree, and halfway up he hangs on and screams into the Parisian sky.

“Join me, rodents of the shadow, the ones that Nature created equal to me. Join me and let us gnaw at the injustice that has created us less than others. We shall strike down the trees that she keeps in her own image. I can not live in this world without some justice, for I have had none so far. Either we strike her down now, or she will forever weave her cruel fate into our lungs, and into or hearts.”

Further up the tree he goes until he reaches a branch, where he stays, looking on into the streets below. He turns back to a silent hush and whispers into the cold night.

“Oh cruel Nature, I will be the death of you. I shall be your reaper, and give you an end which you have brought to so many others. For my love. Esmeralda.”

As he voiced his last name, his last love, the branch snapped and he plummeted towards the earth, until he met with the ground, and joined the worms that are forever working, under Nature's bidding.