Watershed Tsunami Soon Am I Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

One or 'n' thousand yawning dead,
and millions more without a home,
while widows, dowerless, must roam
with no soft pillow for the head,
nor shelter from the sun, nor bed
on rainy nights unflecked by foam,
nor bowl of rice, nor plastic comb.
Yet what are these one thinks with dread
compared to what may lie ahead
when rainbow dreams in polychrome
won't spring spontaneous, when loam
salt sterile, is dispersed. Instead
of action to allay stark fears
man, kind, once fertile forests clears.

Ignoring billions underfed
who, destitute, beneath starred dome
are doomed to wander, honeycomb
the map though larderless they're sped
from birth to earth before well wed,
man metal, minerals, mines, chrome,
cares more for gourmet gastronome
to fill its paunch, won't look ahead.
And yet, for rich, for poor gainsaid,
spins still untiring metronome
as doomsday count-down clown and gnome
shall swallow soon, blind by blind led.
What mark in one, one hundred years
may then remain to hark pain's tears?