The Earth has 30 years
until she’s had enough
of us. She’ll make real our worst fears,

conjuring the stuff of nightmares,
of fire and flood and poison slough.
The Earth has 30 years

to choke us with our own tears
and smoke and acid, her final rebuff
of us. She’ll make real our worst fears.

Ravaged and rueful, she will sneer
at refugees of famine and drought.
The Earth has 30 years,

then humankind will disappear.
Our mother has had more than enough
of us. She’ll make real our worst fears.

Give me no grandbabes, daughter dear.
Such tender skin is not meant to be tough.
The Earth has 30 years.
Of us, she’ll make real our worst fears.