| The rivers turn to spite us
|
| By slowly feeding us poison
|
| The sea spits at us debris
|
| On which it’s slowly choking
|
| One by one, the beasts and creatures resignedly turn to exit
|
| This plain which every second
|
| Is less worth the fight of saving
|
| I wonder if the animals know something’s wrong
|
| At least the ones we haven’t enslaved
|
| I wonder if the animals know something’s wrong
|
| Do they think that they are to blame?
|
| I wonder if they have stories
|
| Some bautifully written lore
|
| A tragically uselss explanation
|
| Equal in delusion to the religions of men?
|
| Liminal:
|
| The start of the insurrection
|
| The inevitable hurtling chaos
|
| The slowly dawning realization
|
| Of the ardor that faces us
|
| Liminal:
|
| The absurdity, the terror
|
| The reluctant understanding
|
| The actions we must make
|
| Would be deliverance and cessation |