Antipronic Decay I
Ending richness. 1999, our world…
Few trees grow old these days
Restless hearts linger through their leaves
Branches fall and stab the ground
They chisel the earth into darkness
Wretched hands put them back
Their shadows grow but stagger
As trembling air refuses to cope
With nature’s way, a poisoned dagger.
More and more, their age is brought back
By flowers weeping by their side
Sometimes they die together
And in hell from light they hide
Silent screams hit the firmament
As bolts of dirt rain down
On blood too dry to wash our sweat
And much too saint for in it to drown