Beneath a wilting elder’s shade I sit,
Camera in hand, I watch the flowers sigh.
The sun, once gentle, now hell’s furnace lit
With fossil-fueled laughter, scorching the sky.

A butterfly—its wings stained-glass despair—
Hovers, bewildered, on a leaf half-charred.
I frame the moment, knowing none will care;
No photograph redeems a world so scarred.

They gather, suit-clad, in their air-cooled halls,
Debating if Earth’s fever is truly dire.
Outside, the grass withers, the sparrow calls,
While truth and glaciers quietly expire.

I click, I sweat, I watch the garden plead,
While those in power cast shades of doubt.
The irony: we water roots of greed
With flames we fan, yet never put out.

We trade the tree of life for fleeting gain,
Composing elegies as profits call.
Each year engraved with ghosts we can’t reclaim,
We archive beauty, framing our own downfall.