The sky reeks of ash,
The trees have sheltered their last leaves,
Our souls are part of withered trash,
The ones from which we have been taught of not to retrieve.
I sit here watching us all ,
Next to a tree, from which is of yet of to be burned,
I could be for well writing this to a wall,
At least then a chance for a single tranquility will be earned.
But until the moment the world has killed me too,
I'll sit here marking my words onto this wall to be told,
So one day when a new age of humanity starts anew,
I'll leave a diverse sense of peace left, set to be gradually mold.
