Smoke is rising into height.
Do we really need such might?
Is it worth to kill ourselves?
Progress turned us into slaves.
We pretend us to be gods,
But we’re only pseudo-lords.
All our glory ends some day,
Falls apart like pots of clay.
From New York down to Alyaska
And somewhere in Nebraska
Killing nature, struggling heavens –
We’re just food for blackened ravens.
Ever thought of what we’ve done?
Then stand up and overcome
Reign of order, reign of death!
Fight it till your final breath!
May be someday you will hear
Song of birds by shiny river.
May be someday we will stop -
And first tears of rain will drop.
Smoke of Mankind
© Copyright: Иван Кунташов, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112101108427
Свидетельство о публикации №112101108427
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