The woodcutter’s axe,

Doth breech the past,

As the shadows of trees, 

Bring men to their knees,

The folly of growth,

Hands over the torch,

To generations beside,

Consumed by past lies,

Of futures of gold,

Left out in the cold,

How could we be,

Without paying the fee,

To exist on this earth,

Justifying our birth,

To which we do not belong,

Which we knew all along,

But ignored in our stride,

As we polluted the tide,

And condemned our kin,

To burn for our sin,

On disrespecting the land,

Our heads buried in sand,

To breathe the pollution,

Forgetting the solution,

So convenient the right,

We imagined that night,

We first looked to the sky,

And gave our alibi