We invented a strange language
where progress means
the sound of forests falling
like unpaid bills.
A human hand draws a line on the soil
and suddenly
the river becomes property,
the mountain becomes cement,
and the sky becomes
a place to hang smoke.
We measure the world
the way a thief measures a house—
How much wood?
How much oil?
How much gold hiding under silence?
No one measures
the breath of a whale,
the sleep of a tree,
or the quiet mathematics
of birds returning home.
We are excellent accountants.
We calculate profit
from the bones of mountains,
write numbers
on the ribs of oceans,
and stamp “development”
on the forehead of extinction.
The Earth never signed the contract.
Yet every morning
the sun still rises
like a patient teacher
waiting for a class
that keeps burning the school.
Humans say,
“Just one more factory.”
“Just one more mine.”
“Just one more road through the forest.”
Greed always speaks
in the language of just one more.
And somewhere
a glacier writes its slow resignation,
a river forgets its name,
and a forest practices
the long silence of ghosts.
One day
the Earth will place our cities
in a museum of mistakes
between the fossils of arrogance
and the dust of forgotten empires.
A small child of the future
may look at our ruins
and ask the wind:
“Did they not know
they were cutting
the branch they were sitting on?”
And the wind will answer softly—
“They knew.
They were simply too busy
counting the wood.”
— Written by Harsh Aryan 🌍✍️
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 4:30 PM UTC
We invented a strange language
where progress means
the sound of forests falling
like unpaid bills.
A human hand draws a line on the soil
and suddenly
the river becomes property,
the mountain becomes cement,
and the sky becomes
a place to hang smoke.
We measure the world
the way a thief measures a house—
How much wood?
How much oil?
How much gold hiding under silence?
No one measures
the breath of a whale,
the sleep of a tree,
or the quiet mathematics
of birds returning home.
We are excellent accountants.
We calculate profit
from the bones of mountains,
write numbers
on the ribs of oceans,
and stamp “development”
on the forehead of extinction.
The Earth never signed the contract.
Yet every morning
the sun still rises
like a patient teacher
waiting for a class
that keeps burning the school.
Humans say,
“Just one more factory.”
“Just one more mine.”
“Just one more road through the forest.”
Greed always speaks
in the language of just one more.
And somewhere
a glacier writes its slow resignation,
a river forgets its name,
and a forest practices
the long silence of ghosts.
One day
the Earth will place our cities
in a museum of mistakes
between the fossils of arrogance
and the dust of forgotten empires.
A small child of the future
may look at our ruins
and ask the wind:
“Did they not know
they were cutting
the branch they were sitting on?”
And the wind will answer softly—
“They knew.
They were simply too busy
counting the wood.”
— Written by Harsh Aryan 🌍✍️
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 4:30 PM UTC