The emerald giants stand with broken spines,
Where once grew ancient moss and tangled vines.
They strip the skin to reveal the bleeding clay,
And wash the spirit of the woods away.
A mountain does not scream, it does not cry,
It simply watches as its children die.
The birds have fled the nests they used to know,
Because the roots have nowhere left to go.
For walls of concrete and for towers tall,
We watch the ancient, earthen kingdoms fall.
The rain comes down and finds no sturdy grip,
As muddy tears down every canyon slip.
The heart of Chattogram is carved in stone,
But now it feels so hollow and alone.
We trade the oxygen for dust and greed,
Ignoring every silent, mountain need.
A scar remains where once a summit stood,
A ghost of what was beautiful and good.
Forgive the hands that do not understand,
The price of killing our own motherland.