PoetrySad Poems

Echoes of Extinction

Our palms are ripe
On the paths thorned
With derogated culture.

We ran through the forest
Down to the stream
To behold a desert in a stream.

We shouted to wake
Spirits of our ancestries
But was answered by our echoes.

We’re trapped, beholding
The beginning of our existence
Fed to extinction.

Are we going home?
Who will hear our mouth?
How much is left of home?

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