Greetings, heirs of flood, fire, and withering drought,
Born of engines and smokestacks we worshipped devoutly.
We cleaved the ice till it bled to the seas,
Then knelt to “free” markets for miracles, please.

We traded the stars for the cold glow of a screen,
And pawned all our futures for pleasures obscene.
We planted our flags in the moon’s distant dust,
Yet left Earth in ruins, to fade and combust.

Perhaps you tread beaches that once were our towns,
Or swim through drowned streets, stripped of human sounds.
Perhaps you draw breath through mechanical lungs,
While forests live on in the songs of old tongues.

We penned endless warnings in fevered ink,
But were drowned out by “skeptics,” too stubborn to think.
We bottled the rain, then we auctioned off the sky,
And swore it was well, even as rivers ran dry.

Yet—here’s the irony etched in our age—
We dreamed of the future like actors on stage.
We pictured you stronger, more clear-eyed and sane,
As we stole your tomorrows in a legacy of flame.

If you read this amid all we left ravaged,
Know we were negligent, selfish, and savage;
Yet somewhere in a vault, vital seeds did persist,
I hope you’ve grown gardens from what we missed.

So laugh at our folly, yet learn from our mess,
And promise your children you’ll steward, not guess.
For we are the ghost of your past on this page,
Still asking forgiveness from some brighter age.