Will the insects rise up
and be filled
with a pus
made by our actions
lacking wisdom and ignoble
spewing back on our scorched earth
the fruits of our hallucinations
about what makes a world go forward

A place where the birds
are but ghosts looking for
a green earth
that is gone

Where lakes, rivers and seas
are converted to dynamos
of industrial slime and nuclear waste

Where mountains and hills
take the forms of ferocious things
as if to compete and make boundaries to protect

With the skies burdened with sorrow
and weeping a chill that prevails
in this world with so little light

Perhaps castles will be made
but no one
will be here