The condor has outlasted him, soaring still,
warm air under it's wings, it might outlast
us, our rifles and our polluted cities. When
the last plane lies rusting on the ground,
our last flight taken, and surviving humans
try to make spear-tips from its metal wings,
the condor might be up there, gazing at their
feeble attempt to postpone our extintion.
19.06.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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