THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 14
Or maybe not. Perhaps we lose. The worst
not knowing, but suspecting, as we die,
these fools have killed the world. And don't know why.
Desperate people rise up, and the first
shot down as we were, and the next. Paid thugs
kill sisters brothers hoping they'll not starve
yet do. In south and north great icebergs calve.
Floods rise. Crops fall to blight or rot or bugs.
Last child falls to last sleep pus in her eyes.
The last birds charcoal on last burning trees
Art knowledge love just ash on burning breeze
charred dust with husks of roaches, lice and flies.
Those curses true we screamed with our last breath
Dying rich men will fuck the world to death.