There will be no more poetry
No trace for existence of wildlife
No space for living flowers and trees
No clear skies for warm weather and stars
No light at day and no dream at night
No breath of oxygen and no smell of breeze
No more beauty on dying landscapes

No more waterfalls, no echo in rivers
No mirror in wells, no air in windmills
No purity in spring water and no cure for nature
No scarecrow in a corn farm, no perfume for charm
No memories of life, no portraits painting smiles
No more fear for danger,
We already live in it…