Silent Voices

Mother Earth

71 Mother Earth (Adapted from my play, The Hill Barbers) There she remains still, Lying like any good nursing mother. With her breasts of bounty Left open for us to feed from freely, Despite the frequent, painful bites On the sore nipples. Her we surely see More like a giant whale On our seashore of greed. A helpless organism, A free launch for the greedy! But think we no pain she feels, When daily from her we siphon Not only gallons of milk But barrels of pure blood? Think we no pain she feels, When daily from her we scoop out Not only pounds of flesh But also peel off hectares of skin? All for our egos to satisfy! Well, no cause for alarm, Were it not that the deep wounds That on her we’ve wantonly created Are given not the least time to heal Before fresh wounds into her again We dig and dig and dig. All this only for our lives to sustain? No. Surely for our egos to gratify. 72 For our personal aggrandisement. Well, true. True, indeed. Human it is to struggle For wealth to amass And rich to become For power to gain. But short of expediency it is To do so to the detriment Of the health Of Mother Earth. But no, continue it cannot forever; For on her we all depend, Everyone of us. On her we crawl like tiny ants On a mighty ship on sail, A ship afloat the turbulent sea of space. Yet on her we daily create Huge craters of gores With massive chisels of greed. So deep now are the holes She, sooner or later, might sink. She bleeds, she bleats, She groans, she moans In severe pain and agony. Her heart palpitates and trembles With fear of impending doom, Of looming catastrophe, Of imminent death. 73 Sick she really is. Yet on her we daily throw Loads of pollution of all species. She sneezes, she wheezes, She coughs, she’s choking. For time we give her not To clean up the suffocating mess. Now she’s with high fever struck. And now, like greedy ants On an oily frying pan on fire, We’re gradually being trapped By this unprecedented upsurge of heat. Heat too frightening, too horrifying, Too terrifying to permit Even a moment’s tranquil sleep Debtors of Our Children (Adapted from my play, The Hill Barbers) Understand you may not; But a universal truth it remains That debtors we have been Right from that moment When the first deep breath we took, As acceptance of our sojourn On this living ball of dust. Debtors of our children, Born and yet unborn; Debtors of the future Which from them we borrowed. ...