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by Yu-ching Lin
In a small Eden of the Galaxy,
Gentle seasons roll on.
Without words, the God of nature speaks.
The Earth with its warmth of soil, has thrived
Generations of shining motes softly.
In the resplendent name of civilisation,
Avalanches of turmoil pile up on the road of history
To the tempestuous final day of no return.
In a small Eden of the Galaxy
Wherein time of evanescence goes by,
Beauties and sorrows continue in new stories.
Billions of motes head towards countless tomorrows where future melts.
As usual, they aren’t ill at ease.
In weeping silence amongst gigatonnes of various refuse,
Without words, the God of nature speaks.
The wheel of fortune spins as it should be, slow yet fast.