I
fear
the end of the world.
We are on our death
beds, gasping for air.
A
dying
world is lying ill in her bed,
her nurses her murderers,
hastening her end with war.
A
ball
that is burning: her fever’s been
ignored by all of those who are
responsible, who made her bed.
I
will
die, as you will die, as will
everyone else, in our beds
beside our ailing Mother.
O,
break
in, you red revolutionaries!
Save us from these doctors
of death! Make the ill well.
O,
make
us rise up from our beds!
We’d swap the hospitals
for hope and happiness.
Infinite Ocean 