The tales my parents tell

Of the days when they were young

Seem taller than the tallest beanstalk.

They speak of bikes instead of cars,

And an environment without pollution.

They tell me of the children

That they used to be,

And the joy that they found

In being

Of the earth.

The pride they had

In the smallest things.

They are the tales that I will tell my children,

And my grand-

children too.

They are the tales that will

Live on for generations

And will only fall

When the last of mother’s children

Hold the final wisps

Of earth within

Her fingertips,

And watches it slip away,

The final crumbles

Of a world dying for millenia.

She will tell her mother

The story of life.