“Whose woods these are I think I know,”
You can’t really own us, though.
You tell yourselves, “Those trees are ours,”
but no one owns the leafy bowers
or fragrant flowers.
We gracious beings share your lives;
You count us up by tens and fives.
You think you’re clever, rich, and smart.
You’re big on brains, but not on heart.
Please do your part.
There is no life without our work.
We do it well and never shirk.
We give you breath and life and air
and nest small creatures in our hair.
Yet you don’t care.
You cut us down and break our hearts
and haul us off on rolling carts.
You simply do not understand
that Earth is dying by your hand.
You rape the land.
We’ll continue to do our bit,
even though you don’t recognize it.
We have a job—a job we’ll do
long, long after humanity’s through.
There’ll be no You.
Then Earth will start to make repair
and hope we never have to share
this planet with mankind ever again
once we erase your selfish stain.
We will remain.
(The first line is from Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”; I have also followed a similar rhyme scheme.).