He was born here, at the end of the Earth, thousands of years ago. He was growing up and at the same time, unimaginably far from him, the human civilization was growing, too. His colossal crown with its millions of needles was absorbing all the vibrations of the world; these impulses were running through the branches straight into the core of his powerful body, imprinting themselves upon the uncountable rings of his memory…

    His needles were breathing in the smoke of cavemen’s fires. Wild winds carried to him the sounds of ferocious battles and of religious chants. People built up cities and empires, and afterwards destroyed cities and empires, and kept repeating the same cycle over and over with maniacal tenacity. The only difference was that with each cycle the cities and the empires grew larger, so more and more killing and destruction was needed to sustain the maelstrom that humans call their history.

    Sometimes through the smoke of raging fires and the deafening din of battles the sounds of wondrous music would reach the old Giant. Occasionally a wanderer would stumble into the wilderness and, awed and amazed, would gaze at the enchanting landscapes, charmed by the beauty of this place. In those moments the Old-timer realized that, apart from the art of war, people (at least some of them) do strive for a different kind of art: to feel love and beauty of the world. But the sounds of music would fade away, and the wanderers would go off, towards Civilization.

    The Old Giant was hearing how Civilization encroached ever closer: swift, cruel and inescapable. Winds brought to him the groans of his brothers dying under axes so that their beautiful bodies would be made into ugly utensils for humans, or simply burnt – carelessly and senselessly…

    The Old-timer sighed and fell silent. My hand touched his dry ancient skin, all wrinkled, and felt the grooves of a love message somebody carved into his old chest, a message that would never reach its recipient.

    …The Old Giant does not talk to me anymore, but I am consoled by the thought that his death did not come from the axe of Civilization.

    And the humans? They keep doing what they love most. They write soulless books on how to climb the success ladder to reach the golden fruits of Civilization. They dream of conquering other planets by turning them into desert that the Earth became. They keep building in order to destroy. And keep killing each other in order to live forever.