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?