When the world is laid waste,

And its celebrants are cinders,

And its clothes ashes;

When it is once again a dead rock,

Like the rock that encircles it,

Its dust open to the poisonous wind;

When we have wrought what we’ve wrought

And done what we’ve done,

And there is no one left to look back in sorrow or anger:

Ah, then, what a song will never be sung!

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allets's picture

The End

For us, but hopefully not earth...anthropomorfic (phic) assumption that we will kill earth. She'll heal without us. Comedian Carlin: who knows, maybe earth created man to make plastic because she wanted some. - Brilliant writing - allets