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The King Behind the Inferno

It is during the day, but the hour is dark,
Ashes and smoke hang low in the skies,
Even miles away the fires leave their mark,
Fires from a forest that slowly dies.

Not a flame of passion, but of human greed,
Ushering forth not light, but darkness at dawn,
Devouring the world's greatest need,
Feeding on life and hope; feeding on the Amazon.

Lit for the king's purse and his cronies' land
Over trees beheaded like rarely before,
Watched by eyes, yet stopped by no hand,
The Amazon's present is becoming a thing of yore.

Animals with unknown names are dying out there
Along with many indigenous tribes,
As well as trees not found anywhere,
All prey to happily accepted bribes.

Wise men fear a point of no return,
Post which the basin could become a land of grass,
A matter of increasing concern,
As the forest loses twenty per cent of its mass.

Today we're forfeiting a golden tomorrow,
Even right now reducing to ash,
And though the king may be yet to feel sorrow,
How much longer can he last with only cold cash?

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