Echoes of Greed

 In the beginning, the world was whole.

The rivers flowed freely, carving paths through valleys where life blossomed in vibrant hues. Forests whispered ancient songs, their roots cradling the earth in quiet harmony. The winds, gentle yet fierce, carried the scent of rain and the laughter of creatures born from the soil. Each being played its part—balanced, connected, belonging.

Man, too, was born of the earth, moulded from the same clay, breathing the same air. In those early days, he listened to the pulse of nature, drinking from its wisdom. He took only what was needed—nothing more, nothing less. The earth gave freely, for man honoured its gifts.

But as the seasons turned, something stirred within him—an ache, a hollow space he could not name. It began as a whisper, a quiet hunger to have more, to know more, to be more. Gratitude blurred into longing. Respect twisted into desire.

And so, man grew restless.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, the man sat by the edge of the great forest, his heart heavy. Though the world around him still sang its ancient songs, he could no longer hear them. The rivers felt too narrow, the trees too simple, the sky too distant.

Seeing his sorrow, the animals of the earth gathered. The lion emerged from the shadows, his golden mane aglow. The vulture circled above, the serpent coiled among the roots, and the owl perched silently on a low-hanging branch, eyes deep as the night.

The owl spoke first, his voice calm yet echoing with wisdom.

"O Man, why do you grieve? The rivers flow, the forests bloom, and the winds dance. What more do you seek?"

The man gazed at the ground, his voice low. "I feel empty. I long for more than this simple life. I wish to be greater, stronger, wiser. I wish to master this world, not merely live within it."

The vulture descended, his wings casting shadows over the man.

"If it is sight you seek, take mine. See as I do—beyond the horizon, past the reach of ordinary eyes. You will witness the world’s secrets from above. But beware—clarity can reveal not only beauty but truths never meant to be owned."

The vulture plucked a single feather and laid it before the man. Instantly, the man’s vision sharpened. He saw the rivers winding for miles, the forests endless in their green expanse, the creatures stirring in their hidden burrows. Yet, the void remained.

"It is not enough," he whispered.

The lion stepped forward, his voice deep as thunder.

"If it is the strength you desire, take my power. Let your body be unyielding as stone, so no force may break you. But know this—strength can be a shield or a weapon. It depends not in your hands, but your heart."

The lion shed a whisker, and the man felt strength surge through his limbs. He clenched his fists, the earth beneath him trembling. Yet the ache persisted.

"I need more," he said, his voice trembling. "I wish to understand the very fabric of the earth—to command it as I see fit."

The serpent, ancient and wise, uncoiled from the roots.

"Then take my wisdom," the serpent whispered, his eyes glowing like dying embers. "Feel the pulse of the soil, the secrets of the rain, the language of the winds. But be warned—knowledge can be a gentle whisper or a sharp fang. One nurtures, the other consumes. Choose your path carefully."

The serpent shed a scale, pressing it into the man’s palm. In that instant, he felt the earth’s heartbeat, the rivers’ veins, the trembling pulse of life itself. He sensed how roots wove beneath the soil, how rivers carved stone, and how the seasons whispered their silent rhythms.

Yet the void, now deeper, gnawed within.

One by one, the animals gave their greatest gifts. Yet with each gift, the void inside the man grew hungrier. The more he received, the more he craved. He had taken all the gifts the earth could offer, yet the hunger within grew louder, more demanding.

The owl, who had watched silently, spoke once more.

"O Man, you have taken much. Yet your heart remains heavy. Why do you still ache?"

The man could not answer.

The ache was no longer a whisper but a roar, a hunger he could not silence.

And so, with the gifts of the earth, the man turned away from the forest, his footsteps echoing not with peace—but with the first stirrings of conquest.

As time passed, the gifts the man had taken from the animals did not fill the void within him. Instead, they fueled his hunger for more.

The vulture's sight, once a gift of clarity, made him notice lands untouched, vast and fertile. But instead of awe, he saw resources to be seized. The lion's strength, meant for courage and protection, became a weapon of domination as he tore through forests and carved rivers into concrete channels. The serpent's wisdom, once a whisper of balance, turned into an obsession with control—extracting secrets from the earth not for harmony but for profit.

He called it progress.

The rivers were no longer wild; he bent them into dams, choking their currents until the fish lay lifeless beneath the poisoned surface. The forests fell, not tree by tree, but in great waves of steel and fire, the soil left scarred and bare. Machines gouged the earth for oil, their fumes blackening the sky. The air, once fragrant and pure, thickened with smoke, turning the sunrise into a pale memory. Seasons twisted out of rhythm—the rain either too much or not at all. Crops withered. Creatures fled.

Yet, he called it advancement.

The void within him only grew deeper, but he mistook it for a need to conquer more.

The vulture, once proud and soaring, was now grounded, wings broken from the thinning air. He whispered, "You see further than ever before, yet you are blind to the life you destroy. The sky I once knew is heavy with your poison."

The lion, weakened, his ribs pressing through his golden fur, growled softly, "You took my strength, not to protect but to conquer. Look at your towers—they rise tall, yet the ground beneath them cracks."

The serpent, pale and shedding skin in decay, hissed, "I shared the secrets of life with you, yet you use them to wound, not to heal. The rivers run dry, and the soil bleeds."

The polar bear, drifting on a shard of ice, whispered, "The cold I once ruled is melting. My home vanishes, yet you chase more."

The bee, frail and trembling, spoke, "I pollinate the flowers that feed you, yet you poison my fields. Will you not see?"

The elephant, his skin scarred from bullets, mourned, "You called my ivory a treasure, but my life, nothing. How much more will you take?"

But the man did not listen. His towers of steel and glass stretched higher, piercing the sky. He measured success in possessions, not peace. His machines dug deeper, his engines roared louder, and the forests he called 'wasteland' were now ash and memory.

The animals grew weaker as the earth cried out.

And yet, the man, standing atop his tallest tower, looked down not with regret—but defiance.

The void was still there, vast and endless. But he no longer feared it. He had learned to silence it with more conquest, more power. His hunger was no longer a flaw—it was the way of the world he had shaped.

The winds carried no more songs. The rivers bore no more life. The forests whispered no more.

Only silence remained.

[The story mirrors our world today, where unchecked human greed has led to deforestation, polluted rivers, and a climate spiralling out of balance. Nature once thrived in harmony, yet our hunger for control and endless consumption has left scars—melting ice caps, dying forests, and vanishing wildlife. True progress isn't found in conquest but in coexistence. If we continue down this path, silence will be all that remains. Let this be a wake-up call: respect the earth, for its wounds are ours too. The time to act is now—before nature’s whispers fade forever.]