It's Too Late To Atone

By Nishka Chaube

When the last wilted leaf has drifted down,

From the parched, shriveled remains of a tree,

Carried by a scalding, bone-dry draft,

Of wind wandering aimlessly.

When the final river’s drop floats weightlessly

Into an abode of clouds and ether,

It shall serve as a testament 

To oceans that used to be.

When the last pond is poisoned,

With toxic waste and choking sludge,

It shall violently expel all its contents,

Flora rotting and desiccating in the open.

When the final bird plummets from the skies,

From its throat tearing a tremulous cry,

Coated in plastic, debris, and soot

It is then that you’ll know, 

You’ve done something wrong.

But it is too late to atone for your cardinal sins.

So, suffer in silence,

Be sentenced to hell

A consequence 

of merely 

existing.

By Nishka Chaube