I can but mourn for what I knew.
I never stood in domed
Or ancient forest. Never viewed
Nor untrod paths were roamed.
My beaches strewn with plastic
Broken bottle, rusted can
My leafy bowers littered
With the residue of man.
My city air polluted
With the vent of poison fumes.
The vestiges of that odorous stench
Turn our shadowed streets to tombs.
What birthright do we leave to them
Who follow in our tread.
Instead of healing cleaning. We
Add our debris instead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem