The Earth is a mother’s shawl,
torn by careless hands.
Rivers are silver veins,
choked till they cannot breathe.

Forests stand like silent libraries,
their books burnt page by page.
The air is a borrowed lullaby,
now cracked with smoke and screams.

We are guests, not owners,
walking on a glass-green dream.
If we heal what we have broken,
tomorrow will still have a name.

         ~Anwita