by: Cecilia S Angeles
The trees that crown the mountains thick,
The vines that cling to branches neat,
The weeds and grass that slope beneath
Have withered now and disappeared.
Your bosom bares an arid heart,
Huge crumbling rocks exploding might,
Where used to spring some waters clear
That gave some life, some hope, some cheer
To rivers' roar and fountains' songs.
The chirping birds on twigs do long,
Earth's music from its cracks do soar
To fleecy clouds; they're pure no more.
At break of dawn, the blades do wave,
Bright dewdrops borne by flowers wild,
Pink blossoms sweet 'mid meadows green.
Today I wonder where they've been.
Oh, man, oh, man, hear ye God's words.
This Earth He gave for us to lord.
Abuse the soil? Pollute the air?
Its water pure, do we not care?
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