Weary and teary

I am ill, my dear, 
ill from all the wounds your hands have made — 
from the smoke that clouds my breath, 
the noise that drowns my birds, 
the taking that forgets to tend, 
and the silence where songs used to be.

I am tired, 
though I was made for endurance. 
Even the old stones feel it now, 
their backs bowed beneath the strain.

But you can tend me.

You can listen,
as I have always listened to you.
You can nurture me,
as I have always nurtured you.
You can protect me,
as I have always protected you.
You can love me,
as I have always loved you.

And if you do,
I will breathe again —
the streams will hum their old refrains,
the winds will carry laughter instead of ash.

You can save me.

All you have to do is —
remember me.