This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Oxford Emory chapter.
When the sun rises,
When the wind blows,
Beyond the valley the violets grow.
My tribe calls the valley home, sharing Its bounties with the birds, the deers,
And all that calls the valley heaven.
I see birds perch on swaying willows.
I hear deer trot in evergreen woods.
My people reap each days’ worth, from spring to summer, to fall, then winter.
But one winter of frost and bite, we lose our year’s harvest;
So we set out to exploit the land, and the pleas of nature can halt us none.
I see no birds perch on wilting willows
I hear no deer trot in crying foliage.
The valley drains of its colors, its youth.
Its rivers are stained by murky hands.
When the sun falls and the wind blusters,
I watch the flowers die.