• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 06
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Perhaps this will be our epitaph:
desolation of plain, mourning
the woods and fields which once
birthed leaves and verdant green,
the hum of bees: exuberance of life.

Already in our greed we ravish
land, tear up the trees,
spit out the silicon from sand.
Pitilessly steal Earth's living wealth
and call riches our financial health.

How long can we still murder her,
before we find
that death is shared by all:
when all that's left
is one tin can pierced to its empty heart,
keening in voiceless testament
to the unforgiving fall?