PAGE 6 THE WORLD IS GRIEVING Sadness reaps its belongings as my clouds– a cloak covers everything in darkness forcing my inhibitors' eyes to shut and lulling them to sleep while the others who walk my land stay far from here not caring to oppose it I tell my own story with each blown-away piece of rock, each shard of glass deposited in what will be just another layer of my sediment. My people are helpless to the doom and destruction “here in Mariupol, this is the third failed assassination attempt of their president” their country, their world, you betray them leave them in my streets, watch as their bodies blend with the ashes from my crust the smell of decay cakes on the walls of their empty living rooms, “How are the rich content while we are dying, do they feel no shame, no guilt? little miss news reporter has no idea of what is happening yet she will write of my misery. she doesn't smell my trees burning. She doesn't hear the bombs going off at night in my valleys. She doesn't taste the tears of my mourning. she doesn't touch the rocks of me that spell out ‘children are here’ so that officials know exactly who they are harming.
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