A tiny craft floated oblivious on the bloodied water;

while there, under them, pale, oppressed, sad people,

the boat pushes its way through bloated bodies, still

ignoring the calls for help, clinging to their future..

—

On that boat, warm, fed, clothed and safe they ply 

their inward thinking, eyes turned towards treasure,

making arms, making money, increasing wealth

and killing folk who disagree or are in the way.

—

Slowly the temperatures rises as fossil fuels grow

and wisdom tossed aside and wreaking policies

build arms factories instead of green renewables,

and death is the wake of their sailing ketch.

—

Slowly the bobbing boat sails towards the glowing sunset,

And supplies run slow, their impatience with poverty.

Swift trashing of life and of the troubled human race 

holes their craft, sinking, powerless into their past.