Green arms grasp the air in a violent struggle,
As if begging not to be forgotten.
They swing angrily in the gentle breeze,
The last caress nature can give without hindrance.

Progress.

That’s what man calls it as they pave
Away all that made the world pure and innocent.
Through the spaces between the checkerboard
Where a definition of civility connects itself,
Lays the ruins of a breed refusing to die off.

A silent question rings through the busy streets
And sidewalks where nature once bloomed,
Pleas answered only with proud calls.
“Cleaner!” yells man.
“More efficient!” he screams.

What could be more than that which gives us life?
Spring should be the greenest of seasons
But has taken to a shade of grey lately.
The plants are replaced with statues;
The naïve are left breathing rubble.