The wind evolved after the fatal warming.
Its speed was now knives thrown at you
to hasten the sustainable habit-forming
before altering the planet to a fusain rue.
Gone was the indicator of falling leaves,
and with it, the gentle breeze on the eaves.
Wind no longer came as a wanted lover
who charmed and rustled out the cover.
As our fate, the wind knives loved gutting;
what a gruesome price when it was over.
For scorching the earth, we lured its cutting.
Deep underground, the core echoed the hunt;
seeking alliance by rising, the molten lava came
only to meet the busy knives about to go blunt.
Behold the blades sharpened in the lava flame,
where gutting was an act given with kindness.
This evolved wind itched to sample its madness.
In the dawn, the wind came with axing sounds.
In the dusk, the wind left with chopping sounds.
In the seas, the wind held contests of skin carving.
We lost our morals and stood not our grounds;
for scorching the earth; we sharpened its cutting.
Neither east nor west served the gentle route;
on sunny days and wet nights, the wind sliced.
With savage gales, it hacked like a reborn brute,
a necessary retaliation for the unjustly sacrificed.
By the windows, we sat and prayed for mercy,
yet we knew our despair blew words unworthy.
It is now up to the wind to bleed us to care;
through trembles and wounding, we must dare.
The wind spoke of our negligence with hunting;
this planet isn’t ours, and no loss must fare.
For scorching the earth, we get its cutting.
The rain attempted to cool as our rescue,
and with it was the birth of blood rivers.
Have you witnessed the crimson as a cue
that humans sabotaged the gifts of givers?
The sun rose weeping on bleeding clouds
while the moon dressed lives in sore shrouds.
Our morals exposed, we lost them with lives.
Our epoch dying, we wrote it with knives.
Mountains are jagged from knives polishing
our actions once caring, now deep in archives.
For scorching the earth, we deserve the cutting.
Now is the heroic world of the cutting wind.
The one exhausted with bleeding must care
before all species end up scarred and pinned,
and elements conspire with the stabbing flare.
We can speak of wind banging and bending;
we can alter the language with our pretending.
We are of gentle breezes and passing blows;
our doom must not come to pass in our lows.
The wind evolved from bending to terminating.
Listen for it aiming while we duck in shadows.
For scorching the earth, we welded the cutting.
Warming—the disaster is of our human making,
and the bread of logical lies we tell in our baking.
Not seen, there is no escaping this blowing cutting;
in red we shall be dressed for our mass mourning.
For scorching the earth, we must wake by cutting.
