the wild

April 30, 2009
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There is a place out there called the wild,
A place where the sun shines bright
Where the air taste so crisp and mild
And the grass grows ever so green

A place where birds sing away their sorrow
And shed away their tears
Where the lion takes upon his mighty steed
And many below worship him

A place of worriless tranquil
And joy is not at loss
Where the fawn nozzles it mother
And the rabbits are hard at work

A place through much left to nature
The wild is a place to be
But all is not what it seems
For the labors of man conquer all

Every day, the wild gets smaller
Even statistics have to agree
For every tree we chop and destroy
More animals die of hunger, and as prey

But we often turn a blind eye
Turn our head around,
And pretend a problem is not there
And say in defense to those who care:

“Lumber is substantial to our well being
To build houses and necessary things
With even one less wood
Our production would stop

Halt we’ll be and less profit we make
For nature can regrow, but houses cannot
Now you see why things have to be
It is for the best for you and me in the end”
But think about the homeless birds
Their babies are so hungry
Their nests are so bare
Their voices nevermore heard again

The chipmunks scurrying in vain
All for the lack of bark
And its young rot upon the stained ground
Leftovers of a ravenous marauder

A lone wolf cries into the night
Alooking from the mountain she one knew
To the land filled ablaze with city lights
Where wild flowers and grasses once grew

A falcon takes wing and flies overhead
The place she once knew called home
A plain now a farm
Leaving her nowhere to roam

A young beaver is deathly ill
A poisonous fish he consumed
From a river man carelessly dumped-
Toxins and his garbage

The proud lion,
Once above all the animals
Shot as enjoyment, as pleasure, a game
On the ground he once reign

What used to be a gentile place
Now lay in shambles and in ruin
Though you cannot hear it
The animals are crying:

“Death is upon us,
For the dawn of humans grow ever so
Oh, why must they kill
All for their want?

Do they not see the blooded stains
Of our children, of which they slain?
We weep in silent tears
Our joy all but gone”
The wrath of man is great
Yet so is his chastity
What he created he can restore
But only one could not do repair

Perhaps this raises a long asked question
What is our purpose?
Many agree at one point
Happiness to all is the best





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