it is a whisper on the wind,
the mournful expression of loss,
the way the earth cares for each of her children,
as they lay dying in the trenches dug deep into her soil.
she screams out in the only way she knows how,
a hurricane, a flood, an avalanche,
an earthquake, a plague, a famine -
we call her weapons tragedies, because of the loss of so many people,
it is her way to try and restore the balance,
keep what is left of her for the rest of us to live.
If only we could hear her cries
the ones she whispers on the wind,
rustling the leaves of trees
and rolling over the blades of grass.
When her breath brings the scent of smog and industry
instead of the scent of flowers.
We are too busy to hear the earth,
and we are surprised when she finally shouts at us.