The world is dying,
we've used her to the bone,
how than, I wonder,
do we still call this home.
If the world could speak,
I wonder what she'd say,
one thing is for sure,
she would not ask us to stay.
We treat her like a place,
when really she's a palace,
the home in which we were born,
our wonderful, used up atlas.
We cut off her hair,
she beginning to go bald,
the trees she gave to help us breathe,
soon, there will be none at all.
I believe that, that is good,
for than, we will surely parish,
and world will start again,
to rebuild the things we should have cherished.