The chilly winds of early November
Or the lack thereof,
The haze in the air and the dust in my breath,
Hear my stifled cough.
Your tall buildings and your fast moving cars –
The day’s tech is a marvel.
Mother Earth’s grave is on Earth itself
And on that grave you build hell.
I pretend I know green, when my child never will,
Colours fade into a repressive grey.
There’s so much wrong, so much to fix,
No time, I cry, and I blow smoke away.
Azmin Azran is a sub-editor at SHOUT. Find him at email@example.com