dark water paws at the

gritty walls

of clawing concrete.

engines rasp by, champing.

old factory fronts lay dormant

assessing their past.

Now, surrounded by trees and park,

passing leisure boats and paddleboards,

all attempt at


to distract from the rash

the water will give


the dirty brown river

reluctantly flows

towards the city

as the tide tells it to;

it rolls on and on,

tired from centuries of

abuse by its captors

enduring the subtle

poisoning. Still, it



the great verbs of

the moon whispering

calculated words

of encouragement.

While we mistake its

silence for resilience

and marvel at it

just as the

bright predictions for

2030 drown [the party lie]

out its begging gasps

to be left still.


Poet: Patrick Green

Illustrator: Gabriela Yancheva

Editor: Amira Umar

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