A woodsman broke the handle of his axe one day—which gave the forest brief but sweet reprieve.
He humbly asked the wood if she might lend one branch with which to mend the tool, and in exchange he’d take his chopping elsewhere, thus sparing many old and noble firs and oaks.
The forest, in her innocence, agreed—but soon regretted it.
Rearmed, the woodsman put his axe to work despoiling his benefactor of her loftiest, most lovely trees.
She shuddered and she groaned, as much at the injustice as the hurt.
So goes the world: our gifts return as griefs. To talk of it is tiring. Why complain? Ingratitude and lies will ever reign.