Where are all the sparrows?
You question, looking at the smog
Turning the morning mist
Into plumes, darker than most shades of grey.
And those rice thieves are no longer
On any horizon, let alone marking,
Their presence inside human homes.
And in this climate of change
Of a slow apocalypse, you find
The tender threads of your heart
Searching for the meaning of nature.
Someday soon, there will inevitably be
The last sparrow, which unlike
The last few dodos would not have been killed
For their foolhardiness, only for
Its pathological desire to coexist,
Hitchhiking on civilization.
