In other's smoke. It turns too red
Too early; barely halfway through
The day, which seems at times the dusk
Already. But it takes its turn
Behind the forests, too soon dead,
Which we are breathing in, and grew
Only to make themselves a husk.
Our city is their living urn
And will continue, they have said,
To be so; this will be the new
Reality. We breath the musk
Of forests, but our lungs aren't clean
We breath in red, and never green.
