Fake stars, incandescent glass

blot out the trueness of the heavens

man-made constellations: a straight, cruel line

so carefully measured by the killers of the night sky

Fake trees, metallic poles

destroy the real beauty of un-grown saplings

man-made branches: electric wires

that only slaughter birds, so different from their majestic counterparts

Fake grass, concrete squares

trample the veritable vivacity of the flowers beneath

man-made flora: cracking greyish pavement

that brings grassy fields to ruination, grounds blossoms to dust

These are the stars that generations ahead will wish on:

these are the trees they will picnic under

this is the grass they will nap and dream on.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star

We can no longer see what you truly

Are.

So blind to the earth that we have scarred.