I wandered through the killing fields, And the most hopeful scene I sawWas one of lesser loss: hundreds of millionsOf heat-scorched, ash tongued, back-brokeStems, instead of billions.
Their roots floundered upwards, too – An inversion of gravity, spun by necessity – And the parched soil became a new mother for us all.
Yet it was false hope I clung to. I know this now,But I also know the stones will remain hereAmong the nearly dead, clinging to this ocean of sand.
And here, in the forest, the last remaining, Each branch is a school, a nursery, and a requiem,And each still reaches for the sun.
They can not help themselves,They are drawn to the light, like us.They are drawn to the light,
Even when its squall of energy and heatWilts infant leaves, beneath the canopyOf older trees, themselves struggling for breath
In the hard dust, gravel winds, and thirsty air.They are drawn to the light, even when it turns Harbinger and hard assayer of what little we have left.
They are drawn to the light, even when it becomes An infestation swallowing shadow and colour and sound.And we know now the tipping point is long since passed,
And we, here, the last, scramble fast to leave a token, A composite of memory, one that might linger Beyond our breath, when even dust is burned away,When only stones remain, heat-drenchedWardens of the dead in an ocean of sand.
