Beloved Mother, ancient, wise, and true,
With trembling hand, I pen these lines to you.
Your forests breathe in canopies of emerald light,
Your oceans cradle dreams beneath the silent night.

But sorrow stains the ink upon this page—
Your children vanish, lost to greed and rage.
The silent cries of species gone, unheard,
A requiem for life, in every bird.

We’ve scorched your skies with poisoned smoke, bitter fire,
Turned rivers toxic, watched Earth’s tree of life expire.
Our hunger knows no bounds, our thirst no end—
We take and take, forgetting how to mend.

The storms grow fiercer, the seasons twist and reel,
Your fury unleashed in flood and flame unhealed.
Earth itself now trembles warnings, sharp and clear,
Yet still we close our hearts, pretending not to hear.

But hope, dear Mother, flickers in the gloom—
A fragile green shoots upward through the doom.
May gentle hands arise to heal your scars,
And harmony restored ‘neath patient stars.

We write our vows in ink that fades with time,
And speak of healing in poetic rhyme.
Yet when the morning breaks, we turn away,
And chase the same old ghosts of yesterday.

Forgive us, Mother, for the pain we’ve sown,
For plastic shores and forests overthrown.
We promise change, and sing a mournful tune—
But spread the seeds of ruin far too soon.

Here I pledge my love, my voice, my remaining days—
This trembling promise, lost within your mournful gaze.
For though we weep and beg for one final chance,
We waltz, blindfolded, toward our species’ last dance.

Yet as we mourn and plead for your embrace,
The world endures, indifferent to our race.
For when our footprints fade from field and stone,
Your forests will return, your seeds be sown.

We write our tragedies and beg reprieve—
But, Mother, it is we who come and leave.