by Carolyn Kizer

The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares

With a great burst of supernatural rose

Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Could we imagine our return to prayers

To end in time before time's final throes，

The green sky dying as the last tree flares？

But we were young in judgement， old in years

Who could make peace； but it was war we chose，

To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

Not all our children's pleas and women's fears

Could steer us from this hell. And now God knows

His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.

This dreadful century staggers to its close

And the sky dies for us， its poisoned heirs.

All rain was dust. Its granules were our tears.

Throats burst as universal winter rose

To kill the whole green sky， the last tree bare

Beneath its canopy of poisoned air.