We are not owners.
We are hands in transit,
temporary signatures on water,
breath passing through forests
that remember more than we do.
The Earth did not ask for conquest,
only for listening.
In cracks of ice it speaks,
in rivers thinning to whispers,
in winds that carry warnings
without raising their voice.
To be a custodian
is to refuse amnesia.
It is to guard what cannot speak in courts,
to defend what has no vote,
to stand where profit hesitates
and conscience must not.
We inherit no throne,
only a threshold.
Between what was given
and what must remain.
Every seed entrusted to tomorrow
is an ethical act.
Every repair, however small,
is a rebellion against collapse.
Care, here, is not tenderness—
it is discipline.
Global, because damage knows no borders.
Earth, because there is no elsewhere.
Custodians, because survival
is a shared responsibility
or it is nothing at all.
And so we walk lightly,
not out of fear,
but out of respect
for those who will arrive later
and ask, simply:
Did they know?
Yes.
Did they act?
This is the only answer
still being written.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 02/03/2026.
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