Nature

I

Nature destroyed

And in place there are statues of bronze,

The trees garish

And in place men read my poetry,

The trees bud in the winter

And in place we get plays,

The animals die

And in place we get democracy…

I will not make a prediction.

The trees might live,

But they are budding in January and February.

Something needs done.

The world will rejoice,

While we Christians will mourn.

That is the prophecy.