Forests to ashes,
Where man-made machines tread flawless fields.
Mountains to dust
When budding flowers,
Succumb to the choke hold of rust.
Where soot and smog run without care
Like wild sheep feasting on barren fields,
Eager for their next submucous meal.
Gone are the days of shine and merry
Come are the days of fire and fury.
The mother cries in pain
For we lost souls peering only in vain.
Like a twisted Pinocchio in a nightmare
We lost control of the cogs in the machine.
Only to become slaves of their pervasive tendencies
For man never held control over his puppets,
He, sadly, never will.
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