Though the Mother is hurting,
Whether by natural entropy,
Or by human hands,
Most refuse to see it,
Like scolded children,
We put on our blinkers,
As if in denial,
Ignoring the fumes and fires,
As the skies grow crimson,
And the seven seas boil,
We’re all peeking through fingers,
Witnessing our own ends,
But will nobody wield those same hands,
Just maybe,
And save the world.
