BURNING BIOMES

Clear, cotton, curtailed climate crown,

cling to your speech before the dawn dies,

before the feudal embers flare anew,

before the trees all scream: “Good bye.”

The river glistens as the sunlight fades,

behind a curtain of knit-together rays.

The tropics dry, the desert bleeds,

the storms crack the earthen soul.

All this happens when the wisp falls

fast from the Loch upon the greyed sky,

where the stars have faded away,

silent in their flaring blares of night.