Shall we wait for all the forests to burn
On the dark pyre of our selfishness
Or hear singed birds screech and young squirrels scream
Or see the sinless sky turn sinister
In wail-drawn, smoke-filled chimneyless dreams? Shall
We cough a perfect flower bed of blood?
Or shall other bright breaking news snapshots
Of distress seduce with the sorcery
Of eloquence and shut our eyes and ears
To grieving grass, wordless wind, crackling wood?
Shall sullen children turn their backs on us
When they learn that we did not even try
To save what was once gifted down to us
From ourselves, lost in our passion and
Pretence, surprised by silence at the end?