If I must wear a shade, then let it be green,
The color of triumph where ruin has been.
For crowns forged of iron will tarnish and fade,
While algae blooms serene in the floods man has made.

I’d linger as lichen on statues of pride,
A script of the silence where empires died.
I’d soften the stone with the velvet of moss,
A sermon engraved in the language of loss.

I’d gather as mold where the banquet was spread,
Feasting in silence on crumbs of the dead.
Their wine sours to vinegar, chalices rust,
Yet humbly I flourish, my tendrils encrust.

To be green is to thrive when arrogance fails,
To score into marble unyielding tales.
For men crowned their towers, proclaiming they’d stand,
Yet harvest will come by the earth’s patient hand.

So make me the mildew, the moss on the throne,
The breath of resurgence through marrow and bone.
If hubris be gilded, I’ll tarnish its gleam—
For empires expire, and green is supreme.