Final Refrains to My Descendants – Circa. 2054

Sing the dyingtime of grandchildren unbornthrough broken, jagged lipsand maybe we will hear youin the silence that will comeafter even your mouth eats toxic dirt. Sing the dyingpeople who flee a garish sunas it traces crimson across a wounded skyand perhaps we will feelyour burning and diseased breathin every infants’ burping. Sing the dyingcall birds…