I can hear our planet
The trees have wilted.
The fruit has rotten.
Concrete and steel scrape
at her warm embrace.
The watercolor dreidel spins in slow motion
She sighs, pondering the madness
and leans to one side
What have they done?
she cries to the moon.
I nestled every need within the green
but they treat it as if it is a canvas
as if white is blue
and blue is black
and green is grey.
What needs could possibly be nestled within the grey?
She is trembling in sync with the stars.
Here comes the sun.
Let us resume
when man has gone back to sleep.
This poem is about:
Our world