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for years, i have welcomed people, homed them. i have provided for and bathed them in solar warmth, seasonal bliss, and nourishing sustenance. in return, i have only ever asked for balance: scales suspended with equity. but everyone i have ever homed has only ever left.
my skies are now heavy with ash and toxicity, my rivers dried up like a thirst-striken throat. the oceans are inked with pollutants, these lands remain barren. there are no flowers, no green. only dust. sand catches the sun in golden waves. the ruins of abandoned cities once speared the sky like giant sequios of the old american west. the debris left behind by those who left me lays covered in dirt. my body has withered, the moisture sucked dry like a wrinkled old prune.
take this as a warning: i am willing to welcome you, but if you are willing to stay, build your home here, you must first filter my skies, sweep the filth clean, recycle broken parts, and pick up remains of the wreckage. reconstruct.
my soil is only as fertile as the impressions those before you planted in me. plant in the seeds you deem best and hope they grow true. put on a concrete armor of caution; the toxicity is radioactive. welcome to hell on earth. for you to stay, you must be willing to withstand the heat. for you to inhibit this planet, you must first bring it back to life.
