When the sky turns from clear to ash
And the sun fades to a distant memory
Will the birds appear in the morning?
When one cuts off an arm
(Or a leg, or a wing)
Why does it feel as if it is still there?
When our fields become malls and the grass becomes roads
And rivers turn dry and clouds turn to fog,
Can we still call our world the same?
When tomorrow fails to be a guarantee
And change becomes impossible,
Will we still feel within that somehow,
That old part of us
Is still there?
Lopped off at the limb
But somehow, not forgotten?