The Mirage Poem by Gianni Pansensoy

It's the last breathe of the dying land,
maybe an enchanted wind passing,
perhaps the spirit of a vanaishing forest,
everybody's specualting,
they are asking,
Who created that spectacle?
Their eyes are mesmerized and wider,
wandering towards the natural phenomenon,
it's something new to them,
never they have seen it since birth,
it's something spectacular,
a MIRAGE growing wilder on a dead river.

Perhaps the wind created it,
they thought,
while its scent,
blows very dry and getting drier,
no longer soothes,
but drying those woods cut from the forest,
they are charcoal woods for expanding
barbecue market in town's plaza,
everyday they will only be for charcoal business.

Forest,
you are not made for death,
but to live and let live,
yet you are not immortal,
you are getting balder,
and you stopped feeding the rivers with water,
your death is getting closer,
filter weaker the sun's heat,
getting hotter without you,
the land's temperature:
Feverish and rising out of control,
turning soils into pebbles and stones,
everything dried dying and thirsty,
everywhere,
from dead cornfields and deserted ricefields,
MIRAGE appears, dances and wilder.

For the greed of charcoal,
chronic abused of forest,
killing along their right to exist,
MIRAGE a symptom of uncontollable warming,
till everything die.