Writing prompt: from the perspective of a tree

I stand, proud and tall, as I have for nearly a century. My bough spreads across the land, dousing all that live beneath in the sweet serenity of shade.

With quivering leaves and a stiff spine, I watch as a lumberjack ambles forward, an insignificant being, but extremely determined.

Foolish human. Do you not realise the wealth of cleansing air I provide? Do you not notice the shrieking cries and throaty chirps of the many other beings that call me home?

Raising his glinting axe, the lumberjack strikes; the blow not sinking deep, but exploding in a burst of green sap—of green blood. Again and again he strikes, chipping away at my tough skin, hacking at soft wood until I am no bigger than a stump in the ground.

But the foolish human does not notice the myriad of scars that adorned my previous selves; past lives that I have lived. Can he say the same for himself?

For once a tree such as myself is cut, I do not die.

I am immortal. My core rests within the earth's embrace. I am protected by rock and stone. They cannot wrench my soul from the chambers below.

The lumberjack drags his spoils away, satisfied. But I am not vanquished. I may have been reduced to a mere stump, but my spirit still stands proud and strong.

The lumberjack may consider himself king, but when he dies, it is I who renames him: everything.