So what do we have here:
Cracked, dry and withered land;
Receptacle of refuse,
of dead trees with poisoned roots;
A vista of unparalleled ugliness.
Above, the ever-faithful sky,
still reminds me of possibilities
that lurk within its clouds,
of promises it intends to always keep.
And so I recall the days when frequent rains
would grace this earth my tired hands
planted with saplings that blossomed
into the forests that are no more.
The tragedy lies in the futility
of knowledge against distractions;
for nothing seems harder than
doing simple things every day.
A True Sentence 