Beautifully cut and tended with care,
Where the sparrows descend in pair,
Chirping and chattering in a lovely fair.
Grass grows say some with disdain,
They know not the pleasure we gain,
Speak lowly of Nature’s fine train,
Unaware that the grass looks like a shrine.
The tired eyes see structures of concrete,
Massive and monstrous revealing a mistreat,
Sending a sensation of nauseated beat,
Signalling a direction of regretful greet.
The greenish hue amidst the concrete jungle is invisible
Stones and mortar have overwhelmed the preamble,
The artificial landscape is but a poor cousin to natural ramble,
Letting out a desolate morbidity in a shamble.
Yet grass grows in whatever space possible,
Only to be uprooted to make way for skyscrapers reliable,
Sealing the fate of the environment to a trouble,
Ensuing a crash of the equilibrium in a loud decibel