Lost Trees

The cutting of trees is distinct for we play,
Escape routes exist to last for generations.
A growth arises in the muddy waters,
Slaves seem to decay as the land alters.

A sane person was a town for the trees,
Pavements in places sensed the crowd;
Tracks for the routes dismayed our coasts,
For travel became a lost cause, a lost religion.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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