You paint the earth
in colors
of brown and blue—
The trees
in emerald,
the soil
in gold.
But still,
you watch it
all ignite:
Your canvas
swallowed
by the darkest night.
You break
and bleed
with aching hands,
Crafting life
from dust
and dirt.
Yet all you build
is set to flame,
And no one whispers
praise—
or name.
You fashioned man
to mirror you:
To guard the land,
To cradle fire
with gentle hands.
But you gave
too much—
desire,
and too much might.
Now they are consumed
by the gift
of light.
And as they scorch
what you have sown,
They make you watch—
They know you see.
And as they smile
watching it burn
You must leave it behind
and build another.
For what can an artist do
If their canvas
is ruined?