These sounds are simple sounds; humbled and raw.
These sounds are naturally saccharine, low but lively in the the most sublime manner.
These sounds carry scents that aren’t so strong;
These sounds are seen no more,
But I’ll remember her splendor.
And I’ll remember her force.
I’ll remember her grace, as well as her splendor.
Her sounds were singing, rustling, whistling;
Her sounds were splashing, croaking, crunching.
Her scents are fresh, clean, natural.
Her eminence was color, notably green;
Lush, life-gifting, innocent she.
Ruined and ripped baren, by the growing he.
That he whom she birthed, haply.
He seized her skin, her life, and her glory.
Before the thirty-first century, she may be dead.
And perhaps, he will follow her to it.
Her aesthetic, declining.
Her resources, never given time for refining.
Replenishing, diminishing, and ravaged by he.
Giving all to be taken, sadly.
Only half his heart attentively minding.
Hot, and cold with remorse or regret.
He started so simply.
He started with stone.
She was not affected until he ripped at her bone.
Her sounds are ripe, lovely, gifted.
Her sounds are singing, rustling whistling.
Her sounds are screaming, drenching, creaking.
Her sights are organized blocks and buildings;
Her sights are towers, trimmed gardens and hedges.
Her scents are thick, toxic, heavy.
She pleaded through many ignored cases;
She cannot speak but through dwindling children.
Children on fours, wings, and scales.
Bouncing, chirping, stomping, trumpeting.
Quieting, silencing, saddening they.
He hunts and kills, and makes them prey.
For what, if not for food or respectful purpose.
For fun, for thrill, for hunting’s game.
And she knows she is dying;
As now she is feverish.
She is no longer crying, as her tears are all gone.