Tiger, tiger, burned once bright,
thy forests turn with dying light,
from embers to ashes in gasoline
fumes that reek of deeds obscene.
The flames were fuelled in desperation
by those who fear eradication
of their ancient tribal lands
their blood runs thick on industrial hands.
They are thy lambs arranged for slaughter,
they are the very sons and daughters
of the forests of the night
in who’s heart thou burn’st yet bright.
Alas, therein thy days are numbered,
thy primal scream by mechanical thunder
is extinguished without thought or care
by those who’s eyes see no despair,
blind in sole pursuit of self
from whom greed’s arrows have with stealth
all empathy and grace dissected
and cold cadavers resurrected,
spectres of their former selves,
emerging from the mouth of hell.
They prey on our indifference
and worm into our confidence
for in the name of saving face,
we ourselves by greed debase
by casual purchases, ill considered
we sell thee, tiger, down the river
which carries vandals to ignite
the unspoiled forests of the night.
But thou o tiger, what chance thy rage
to free thee from thy clinical cage?
Near sole survivor of thy race,
a dwindling band who’s time and place
shall with fleeting memory take flight
unless we help thee again burn bright.