"not our fault," you say,
as we watch the fish choke
on reeking plastic sheers

you cast your line
and we collect lifeless masses
while the sun hides
under the singing river

"it's an N-95," she tells me
while denting an oak log
—her to-be sofa
"what's the mask for?" i enquire
"for shielding me from the virus;
for Mother Nature isn't motherly anymore"

"it's all a ruse," he scoffs
pointing at the TV reports
screaming 'CLIMATE CHANGE'
outside, snowflakes rush to meet
a summer-hot ground

tinged fierce green eyes
shed emerald tears;
for their essence has shrunk
to hourglass sand-grains

she adorns her vengeance
like sleek kohl,
and lets the steel
line her voice:

one day, the tables will turn
one day, you must regain your vision
for an ephemeral temporal,
and so you shall realise;

the stars were never yours,
to be in your favour;
the vast verdure was never yours
to be ruthlessly murdered

because you, my dear

are just a guest
who's been so well treated

and so tsunamis will drench you
and flood your very home,
until you choke just enough
to be even with the fish;

until you crumble just enough
to be washed away clean
by a generous tide