We tear down the trees,
and they fall like thunder,
an echo of voices
of things unknown.

They fall like thunder,
and the machines roll past
rolling and crunching over soil and rock,
slowly crawling over the wet, ragged dirt,
crawling like moths that cannot fly.

Machines are only a part of nature
after all.
Why not compare them to the naked moths--
their bare, white wings--
why not compare them all?

It seems as though we have forgotten.
Forgotten them all.

The trees fall like thunder,
like the roar of a storm.
The rivers flow with red,
a red disease.
The flowers wilt in summer,
bowing their heads.
The roads stretch over continents,
stretched and intertwined like a spider web.

Forget it, forget it all.
Forget the metaphors, the similes,
the meaning of it all.
Forget the moths,
forget the spiderwebs.

Forget it all.