Felling an Old Palm Tree

No one ventured to linger under the palm
near the crematorium.
Loneliness magnified horror.
The woodcutter,
who was wedged between delusions,
wouldn’t even touch the giant tree,
because it would bleed,
and he would die.
The night wind woke up its leaves,
and played the uncanny notes of fear.
An owl’s hoot from the old palm
was Death’s arcane alarm
before seizing a soul.
So the villagers whispered holy words.
Though knuckleheads,
they were know-it-alls.
There was diversity in caste and creed,
but they were unified in stupidity
(the tree was the hangout of the ghosts).
They had been indoctrinated from the cradles
with a variety of superstitions.

Now a chainsaw’s vroom
pierces my eardrums.
A new highway is taking shape.
The palm falls down.
No bleeding.
I don’t find anything paranormal in the trunk.
But the anxieties of the people begin to burn.