Guilty or Otherwise

By Maya Green

Isn’t it ironic, maybe even sadistic
That we paint such feeble, pointless mix
And pin up a poor and lifeless replica
Of a living tree, as great as the star
Of all things, on to a wall made of wood
That, my friend, give me a foul mood

After what we have done to the forests
And to all of nature in general
Where can we hide, or put away our faces
There is no room left, for being neutral
You are either guilty as hell
Or of those who screamed ‘bloody hell!’