I feel the smog

In my lungs,

Weighing down her wings.

I cough,

And it sticks in my throat.

 

I smell the smoke

Burning my eyes,

Burning her roots.

Centuries of hard work

Erased.

 

I hear the machines

Churning, repetitive.

Why should we change?

It's for the future to worry about.

They'd rather be wealthy.

 

I promise,

As her humble guest,

Before I depart,

I will leave her better than I found her.

I promise I will fix her.