Grass

Oh the dirt will scream
The mountains will cry
And their souls won't speak
Because they'll be tongue-tied

They'll be wondering why
As they hear the faint sigh
As it falls; once so tall.
Cut down now; forced to crawl.

My voice will be heard,
Independent and clear.
This won't ever be over
Until our Earth is set free.

Death is small
But life is at large.
This, in the raw,
Means that life is so hard.
(Don't make it harder.)

Oh the dirt will scream,
The mountains will cry,
And their souls won't speak
Because they'll be tongue-tied.

(Look what you've done.)

Black crows fill the sky
Make the day as black as night
Dirty air fills your lungs
Dirty broken air: what you become.

Yes, it is alive.
It breathes, even in the night.
Teeming and wreathing, it climbs,
Stretches, and whines.

Like you, It doesn't want to die,
Beautiful creature of Creator's design
Can't be confined, or owned,
Or truly defined.

There's a thread with your name on it,
woven into the open sky,
And the clouds remember how they caught this
Phenomenon as it floated by.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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