Rain, swirling sheets 
purging the residue of man from the land
A dark grey curtain
covering the green hills.
The Earth crawls under its cover,
seeking repose from its weary battle.
Listening to the ancient voices,
Echoes, recalling a time long ago
when the Earth basked naked
beneath a native sun,
providing for beast and fowl alike.
Their roars and shrieks called out
from the highest peaks,
across vast deserts,
along fertile plains.


Those calls long since overtaken
by the hum of engines
and the steady drone of machinery,
the clanging of steel upon steel,
and the blasts of explosives.
The new language of man,
And he called it Progress.


Cities went up,
Forests disappeared,
Factories bellowed,
Oil wells gushed,
Mines bore into the hearts of mountains,
ripping out their guts.
All their wastes filled rivers and streams.
Their fumes choked the air.


And the Great Mother cries - and cries.
Full with compassion Heaven replies.