This earth
of tressed roots and rivers,
fish-silvered oceans,
sky, bird-woven tapestries
of celestial hues,
is the cradle of all life—
~it is not ours~
to unmake,
to sully sky and sea,
to eviscerate,
for in the unmaking is our own ending,
and when we have crushed the petals of the last rose,
who will weep for us?
