On the Conversation Tree by the sea, a black plastic bag been stick up in the middle, flapping in the high-noon wind, flying at half-mast like a flag of mourning.
We’re sorry Little Ones, so sorry.
Please forgive we for this dying that we’s creating.
In the beginning, we the parents, grandparents, aunties, uncles, guardians didn’t know.
We just thought that the world would stay the same, forever and ever, always. And we did believe that the earth would clean itself for you; the sea would stay full-up with treasures for you, and the air, oh the air would be so pure, as fresh as the day the earth did dawn.
But now we know, we just can’t stop.