The sky no longer whispers blue,
It bruises deep in a smokey hue,
And winds that once hummed lullabies
Now howl with the truth we can’t deny.
The trees remember quieter days,
Before the ash, before the blaze.
Now roots retreat from poisoned soil,
And oceans churn in the ceaseless boil.
We paved the earth with wants, not needs,
Spilled oil over sacred seeds.
We called it growth, we called it gain,
But never paused to weigh the pain.
A child in Dhaka dreams of flood,
A farmer’s field turns into mud.
Yet boardrooms speak in profit charts,
While glaciers weep in broken hearts.
What price is the coral, pale and gone?
What is worth the morning’s missing dawn?
How loud must Nature cry and crack
Before we dare to answer back?
Still,
A mother plants a stubborn tree,
A youth holds signs for all to see.
And somewhere, in a city square,
A voice ignites the heavy air.
The Earth still turns. Her lungs still breathe.
But change must rise from underneath.
So let us write not just in ink,
But act, and feel, and deeply think,
For every policy, every pact,
Are not just numbers, it’s the act
Of choosing who we strive to be
When the Earth speaks back….

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