The way we are selfishly depleting resources in the name of development, with complete indifference to mankind’s future – this poem on an apocalyptic situation, requires very little help of the imagination.
Every rain cloud is another belief
To be downtrodden by nightfall,
Not a morsel goes in without reminding
The misery that this may be the last of all
Every grim face at my dinner table
Takes the same question to bed,
“The way that it is being forecast,
What if, come ‘morrow, I’m not fed?”
The fields look modest and moan
For what seems like elixir now,
But was truly life’s safest cradle,
That suddenly we decided to do without.
The skies seldom seem to say sorry;
They enjoy this backfired vendetta’s glow
Amidst the darkness that’s now mankind,
Their ex bosom-traveller and now prime foe.