by Nick Gisburne
They say there will be centuries of toil,
That none of us will live to see it done.
A wilderness, with toxic, sterile soil;
To this appalling paradise we run.
The cinders of the world we left behind,
Still smoking with insufferable hate,
Are missed and mourned, no worse than what we find
Through every window warning of our fate.
An exodus, unable to return,
Enslaves us to a stark, imperfect plan.
For seven generations we must learn
To build a dream, together, if we can.
The paradise, the promise, was a lie,
But something stronger, hope, will never die.
