PROGRESS

I hear the roaring of machines

As saws cut off the top of trees.

The song of birds, they now are silent;

Drowned out by noise and falling debris.

 Their encroachment upon the lines of wire;

An interference now, their limbs removed.

Nature and suburbia intertwined

With the former now reproved.

 One by one I see the way

That's made for man to build with brick.

As one by one the trees are cut;

Giving Mother Nature another kick.

 The needles falling from the pines;

Another tree that's left to bleed.

But for its' wound I feel no pain

But mourn the silence as I read.

 I now can use the telephone

But have no use I feel for pines.

Their cones that clutter up the ground

And branches tangling up the lines.

 But what crime, the mighty oak,

That for years, allowed to grow.

Must we turn them all to dust

Without their worth to ever know.

 Guilty I, for such a crime,

And for my sins, someday will pay.

For as each forest is cut away;

I'll know the cost that comes one day.