Apocalypse

  

Behind this hut, a patch

Of paradise lies, where we chased

Grasshoppers and butterflies; sipped

Nectar from stems of wild flowers.

Today,

This village, genesis of our lives,

Home to our homes, mourns

The death of its river, suffocated,

Our elders say, by a fuming monster

A few miles away.

Fear-laden grief, like apocalypse mist,

Fills our huts, creeps into our hearts;

We strain our ears to catch

The croak of frogs.

Nothing.

We pull our blankets over our eyes,

Not knowing if tomorrow

We live or die.