We walked through forests thick with breath,
and never thought to count the trees.
We treated shade as guarantees,
a birthright owed, immune to death.
We let the rivers bear our waste,
their silver bodies bruised and torn,
and called it progress, called it born
of need, too proud to call it haste.
We watched the seasons lose their thread,
the heat that clung beyond its turn,
the fields too starved to green or burn,
and mocked the warnings we were fed.
We told ourselves there’d be a sign,
some final flare, some shouted plea,
as if the world would wait to see
if we deserved another line.
But now the silence has a weight,
the birds are ghosts at break of day,
the tide pulls further, pulls away,
and still we bargain, still debate.
And only now, with breath grown thin,
we face the wreckage we began:
the world we thought was ours to plan
is leaving, and WE did it in.