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When night hands over the baton,
Dawn rushes to the horizon,
To steal shimmer and rose gold,
From the palette of the sun.

He attires her in rays of yellow,
And tangents of white light,
She turns into day, a beauteous bride,
Coy and mellow or radiant and bright.

Mounts with mist and rivers that twist,
Fields with grain waltzing in the rain,
Seas that shine and plains full of kine,
Valleys full of blossom, secure in its bosom.

The minuscule man, in wondrous awe,
Cries in glee, 'O Nature O!'
Rubs his eyes, gawking in reverence,
At this marvelous creation of Providence.

As the day grows old, his machines are rolled,
Over rivers and plains, and mounts are holed,
The organized chaos of his naive methods,
Deepens Natures wounds, and they fester.

His plastic chokes her, his oil is a polluter,
With his foolish acts, he digs his grave deeper,
Years of systemic abuse has done the earth loose,
Acrid air n' deprived tracts, he does little to save.

Men of science gather far and near,
To discuss the matter and ponder in fear,
The wasted path their fellow men have taken,
Will lead them down to a point of no return.

While they only talk and ponder,
The rest proceed to cut and plunder,
With the crown of fury firmly on her head,
Gentle hued Nature, she turns fuming red.

Famine, earthquake, floods follow,
The minuscule man, with his ego hollow,
Reduced to an element of utter pathos,
Pays hard for his wicked ethos,
Laments through his assured destruction,
Yelps and cries, 'O Nature O!'.

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