Apocalypse
Our silent crisis...
APOCALYPSE
There will come a time, not long from now,
when all the birds will cease to sing,
and rivers will run empty,
and the sky for all its grand expanse,
will be nothing but an empty
blotch of blue obscuring the stars.
And maybe we'll learn to care,
after the sparrow sings its last,
or after the bushes buzzing with bees
grow eerily still. Then we'll mourn
and wail, and fill the silence
with empty threats—our orbit
round the sun, all that's really left.