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To the Future (poem)
By W. D. Ehrhart
On behalf of my species, I'm sorry
for the mess we've made of this
planet. It must have been a nice
place before we got here. Even as scary
as the dinosaurs were, they didn't
cause their own demise the way
we've engineered collective suicide.
What else to call it? How could we avoid
the warning signs? Talk about denial.
But we did. Year after year. For decades.
Until it was too late. And then all hell
broke loose, the mad scramble to evade
the hurricanes, tornados, flooding,
glaciers melting, ice caps shrinking,
oceans rising, burning forests,
burning prairies, burning cities.
Those with the guns took what remained
of food and water—as if their might could
somehow alter the laws of physics—
'til they too were drowned or starved
or broiled alive. Whatever you are,
wherever you are, if you're reading this,
I send my apologies, and wish you
wisdom greater than ours.
—W. D. Ehrhart