My ‘Ingvar Kamprad, Elmtaryd, Agunnaryd’ Induced Tragedy

What was once a tree,

what once stood with grace, grandeur, and pride, is right before me. What’s

to be found is a forlorn mound, a grave signed by roots, a hollow tube for an IKEA table, strengthless

seeds without shoots, a sad old fable. Even from where I stand, I’m taller. I mourn and mourn for what is

now an EKEDALEN or ESKOGSTA, for what was once a tree. Now dead on my lawn, never to be free, what

was once essential for life. Oh, how you’ve changed... I now cry for thee.

What was beautiful and once stood as a tree,

is now cremated into

a textbook, a

pencil, a table

or an urn. I

really, really

do grieve for

thee. Had you

been granted

more life, would

your gaze brush

over my scars, my

form, my height, my

tears, and my pyre? Would

you also mourn, for what was once me?