There once was a place whose luscious grass
glimmered in shades of jade, whose tall
trees grew branches that entwined to
form canopied playgrounds—havens for
all creatures, big and small.
Winding through the playgrounds,
nourishing them, and flowing with
the rhythm of it all, was a brook so pure
that music arose from it, inviting
birds to chirp along and
flutter their wings in harmony.
But now the trees and the creatures are all gone,
and so is the grass that once glimmered in shades of jade;
just shades of death remain of those canopied playgrounds.
The once pure brook is now filled with
garbage, no longer nourishing, no
longer able to invite birds to sing and
dance along with its rhythm.
Only the sound of desolation is heard there,
and no one really hears it except Mother Nature