Eerie rustles, baptize, its rage
A season, no less, than funeral
Have we, invented, age of outrage
That omen, is now, more than real!

Every realm, is drenched, in the, tears of sun
No blade, of grass, erupts, with grain
The loch, where swans, splashed in passion
Is a dream, d(r)ying, in the, throes of pain!

The race, we won, of existence
Is all, but, lost to, avarice
Will, we end, without, an evidence
In, evolution’s, endless abyss!

With global warming, there won’t, be spring
Nor winter, and, no more monsoon
Under, cool oak’s shade, no, magpie would sing
No swans, would swoon, In A, Fall, Too Soon!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra