The Whistling of the Wind

A large blast heads towards me,
My attention turned to see a tall  tree,
It lies on the floor, its long branches sagging.
Then the ropes wrap around it, dragging.

3.5 to 7 billion trees, cut down per a year,
I see all this monstrosity, I smell, I touch, I hear.
And this, it makes me angry, as angry as can be,
So then an angry gale is lashing at their face, yes now you know, that in truth it’s me.

I’m the wind that blows, that lashes out that whistles,
The breeze that runs through your hair, the dead wind through the thistles,
I’m as old as the earth itself, I’ve seen how it’s evolved,
And now there is a problem, a problem that needs to be solved.

I can feel how every day I’m becoming less and less clean,
The air all around me is getting easier to see,
As parts are now grey, contaminated with pollution,
Fixing it, starting now, is our only solution.