(when they call)

A warm glow from the morning
not yet ruined by the radiant heat
a cool breeze sweeps through
with the small of a nearby city floating on it
never silent in the metropolitan
And still the birds call to nature; their instincts follow the trees and food
one bathes in the dust, rustling his feather with the wind
to be clean and cool.
The illusion of peace dissolves with the dread of waiting
for a new hope? a fleeting dream?
We’re surrounded by nature that we deem beautiful
moulded, planted exactly to schemes
is it truly natural to meddle with design
to still call it nature
completely man-carved
The birds don’t sing, they cry
strangeness, unfamiliarity
when we mould their lives, all they can do is live on
running in circles to find their place again
much like we do
when their land lays mutilated.