Nobody asked the crow, the bee, the clover
For permission to bulldoze the meadow
Despite hourly bulletins from the flowers
Of pollen deprivation, nobody heeded the warnings
When birds spontaneously died after the oil slick hit
Nobody raised their case for compensation
On behalf of desolate hatchlings, orphaned and unfed
Now our wild life lives in little oases
A corner of scrubland here, a strip of railway there
Memorial plaques, they say, are in the pipeline
Once this patch housed sparrows now deceased
City planners have eaten all the rule books
Stuffed their projects with woodlands, gluttonously
How many nests do you see on the wires of no-man's-land?
Soon, watching a squirrel may be an event, like a visit from the Pope
Leaves may become museum pieces, auctioned as rarities
Prized by collectors.
But of course we shall always have plastic imitations,
In the virtual reality landscapes of tomorrow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem