FotorCreated 4

I listen to the wind its screaming of change; begging
each in return who don’t count it as strange. The ice
caps melt and the level of sea rise; a voice from the
future bellows out “devise.”

What if rivers turned red and reeked of pain and blood;
by day and night through fields of wreckage, waste and
flood. Oh sour are the trees lest we mend our ways; Lo!
clothed in the shadows of fire, smoke and haze.

Hope in sombre moments had power not to gaze;
As soon with one accord raise your voice on dais.

 

 

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Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United