Bitter Harvest
We till, we plant, we reap, the planet turns
a bright blue jewel against the velvet night.
We bow our heads, avert our eyes, we learn
to hide our hearts, humbled in its sight.
We dig, we trench, we build, the planet spins.
Our towers touch the sky and in our pride
we believe we are immune. That no ill wind
could tumble rock or sweep our bricks aside.
This raging storm lays waste to all our land.
The planet weeps and no one is untouched
when buildings crumble into dust and sand
when desert winds keen, shifting sand and dust.
Hate the bitter harvest we have sown:
fields once rich and fertile, ripe with stones.