From the treetops she weeps; a war with no end.
Extorted, exploited, cut down, exterminated.
Diseased, deserted, burned up, devastated.
They’ve bulldozed her home, chopped away her youth
From the sky, breathe her pain—there’s no stopping the truth.
The truth?
We are Dido, she is Carthage.
She is ash, we are the Phoenix.
Rising from her remains just to crumble, fading into her embrace once more.
She prevails—we are ephemeral.
But does it have to be so?
Can we not live harmoniously in her affectionate glow?
Can we not grow and admire her dazzling light show?
We must learn from this show,
The show of mankind, its sins and scars on her beauty divine.
For we have but one chance.
The signs are all there, yet we sit. We wait. We stare.
Watching shadows on the wall that aren’t real at all—for what? For fear of being blinded?
Shackled by our own hubris as we are forced to watch the scenes unfold.
Few look down to check their chains, unveiling the façade of imprisonment.
Those who do? They are free. Never to return.
Not because they are blind, but rather because they’ve seen.
And so they go on to fight a war with no end to save us from her end if we cannot rise and see her light.
But still we sit. And we wait. And we stare.