Man and nature's relentless battles have only grown with the never-ending growth of industry, and the Earth's cries are forever ignored, muffled by the buildings built over it.

The house stands on top of Earth.

It stands on broken trees

That once swayed elegantly in the wind,

Whose branches gracefully tumbled and then miraculously grew,

Whose leaves vibrantly greened and then turned the color of dawn.

The house stands on the graves

Of the organisms of before,

The organisms that once soared and strutted

And were killed by the war between man and nature.

The house stands on pure air,

Then crisp, but now dirty.

The plants from which oxygen came, once productive, now crushed.

Selfish, the house, taking it all for itself.

The house is built with broken trees,

Whose branches, once sagging with the weight of the environment,

Are now murdered and disembodied,

And whose names don't matter any more.

The house stands on sacred earth

But is built for all the wrong reasons,

Large and overbearing for reasons only known to man,

Reasons lost to the cries of the environment,

Reasons gone with the winds of Earth's sighs.

The house stands on the mouth of the dirt,

Muffling the cries of the branches and leaves and organisms and the air.

Cruel, the image of man's triumph and the strife of the soil.

The house stands on top of Earth.