Instead of hearing finches sing
The whistle of our cars will ring
In ears of children yet to hear
The way a bluebird chirps in cheer

Instead of crunchy newborn snow
The heat is all our winters know
They cry for cold and frozen tears
But waters drip away our fears

Instead of gentle spring-time rain
Fierce storms will wash over the plain
What wisdom we had thought to know
Reduced to cinders, away it blows

Instead of trees that climb up high
Our man-made towers fill the sky
And where a great large trunk once sat
Is now a bubbling acid vat

Instead of mother earth in glory
Our children tell another story
Of how the finches once would sound
Now never to perch on mothers ground.