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What horrors will our off-spring see

in the miasma of futurity?

Their prospects go from bad to worse

as degradation runs its course.

When hope looks like self deception

and positives like mad delusion,

how to stem the lemming crush,

resist the tides of mass confusion?

What chances do our children have

to right the wrongs of history,

to find an unobstructed path

from the charnel house of destiny?

What wonders of the great wide world

will be denied our progeny,

the English Elm, the western Pine,

the elephant, the honey bee?

What poisoned remnants will remain,

what maladjusted misery?

What might they blame for what they see,

where lies responsibility?

We’re un-accepting of the truth

of how it starts with you and me.

How else might we stagger on

in the stench of such perversity?

We’re satisfied with leaders who

confess they don’t know what to do,

that wouldn’t dock our bank accounts

of un-acceptable amounts.

And thus tomorrows loom ahead

with promise overwhelmed by dread;

with life and beauty sacrificed,

our children’s futures overpriced.

 

Poem by Michael G. Hawkes

English elm

honey bee

Elephant-and-calf

western pine

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