The shores of the river are turning to sand,
a desolate and grey emptiness, a dead band.
It all blows up in the night wind, toxic dust.
Deep in our lungs and our eyes, a sighing bust.
I stare into the sky at night, from my telescope.
At all the worlds and galaxies, there is no hope.
One blue world and endless and cold darkness.
That is the truth of our gaicide, bitter starkness.
I walk by the shore, dead fish, stink of pollution.
Money makes men cowards, fight every solution.
The sand is deep in my lungs, irradiated and rotten.
The love of our world, of all that was given, forgotten.