The trees listen if we talk to them. During our journey to Pedrogão, we spoke with the trees. I hugged a tree. I heard its silence. Its stories, its wounds, and its pain. I smelled the odor of burnt earth. The trees were in mourning. We carried what was left of them, their black trunks, many of them turned to dust, ash and nothing. We inverted the burnt branches of the trees so that they seemed like roots, being reborn from the earth. And on top of these dead roots we grafted life: little green pine trees. The green of hope. Before we die, each one of us should plant a tree, and speak with it.