How unfair of the sun to make leaves

Cast a shadow over everything beneath them

As if their photosynthesis is worth less;

To say their green holds lackluster meaning;

To allow things to die.

 

How untrue to itself must this ball of gas be

To make worlds move around it;

Be shifty in skies and provide light

Only to places in its view?

Are not all things deserving of heat;

To know passions glow;

Burst open with joy;

Cross pollinating the skin of all that seek growth?

 

What injustice for a sun to burnout;

To turn cold on all that grew dependency;

Wreak havoc and devastation in its passing;

To die.