"The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way.
Some see nature as all ridicule and deformity...and some scarce see nature at all.
But by the eyes of a man of imagination, nature is imagination itself." William Blake
And the dawn lit up the fire of the accelerated rust
That was attacking the face of that exposed, metal, armless, bust
Nothing in this life is forever, or forever lasts
Except some deep forgotten secret, in our mind, from the past
And decay happens, even to personifications of the language of love
Decay happens, even to the delicate petals of the rosebud
What happens to the spark of life, from Love sown?
Why does the product have to grow up and die alone?
And the birds did continue to sing, amongst the decay
Whilst we pump into nature, the toxins that technology will pay
And the acid air, that we all continue to breathe
Is manufactured in the pursuit of the profit and the slease
As we upset and rape the balance of nature
And pay lip service to it in our schools and lecture theatres
It will fight back, with the most deadly force
And will end up destroying ourselves, of course.