The lake, the sea: the tireless gloves…
Where nature’s hand.
Still holds her sceptre far above…
Her bastard, man.
The shore where centuries of sand…
Through waves have raced.
Invites a swim, but think where man…
Deposits waste.

The sun will burn a hole right through…
Your parasols.
The clouds so sick they’ve split in two…
From aerosols.
The air will fill your lungs with fists…
For ev’ry breath.
'Til future days when life exists…
To mirror death.