Whose crimes these are I think I know.
Their place is in the fire below;
They will not see you shed a tear
Nor care a whit, death fast or slow.
The dying child is numb with fear
And choking as the end comes near
From breathing toxic fumes so thick,
From burning what we love so dear.
She gives the fog a wistful look
Remembering a pretty brook
That ran behind her house one day
Before the heat took it away.
The Earth was lovely, green with life,
But we cared so for things and strife,
And conquered her with greed so rife,
And conquered her with greed so rife.
Inspired by the poetry of Robert Frost.