Our Generation

By Nishka Chaube

Dear predecessors, 

Sentinels of the sacred. 

Mountain-blooded, river-nestled, 

Progenitors of the past. 

You spent hours sheltering foliage, 

Whether it be the dreaming orchids, 

Or the musing marigolds. 

For every thick-veined tree  

That fell at your hands, 

You restored ten more, 

Each one better than the last. 

Thickets of dew-kissed bushes, 

Canopies of sage-green leaves. 

So greatly did you consecrate, 

That even the clouds, 

Threaded with a foaming, misty illusion 

Gravitated towards the thickets in awe. 

Souls of the unborn tomorrow, 

You must have expected the exceptional, 

When you wafted amidst the curious clouds. 

You dreamt of sleek tech, together with green nature 

The earth’s preservation at the very heart and soul. 

You wavered amidst the regal black smoke, 

The coal tips curling magnificently. 

But when you peered down,  

Your tongue was severed clean, 

And a flash of horror ensnared your form. 

The tips of the smoke now menacingly tightened, 

Coiling slimly around your throat. 

Unable to speak, unable to breathe, 

All you could do was weep. 

Crystalline tears cascaded down, 

As you sobbed in a burning cradle, 

Everything was alight tumultuous fire, 

In your hollow, ash-rimmed eyes. 

Smoldering air attacked your lungs, 

Sending you plummeting down, 

And leaving a wisp of cruel smoke. 

As you land amidst the thicket of burning trees, 

Certain all your wan bones, 

Are snapped in half. 

I’ve come to atone 

That us, the current generation, 

Burnt the earth, 

And all the things that matter, 

To  

the  

ground. 

By Nishka Chaube