The pasteurs green,
a tillers bread;
have long become barren.
The mountains white,
a delight to eyes;
have been tinted crimson.
The waters calm,
a peace to the soul;
are now turbulent.
The air pure,
life of the valley;
stinks now - of Death.
The paradise on earth,
has been turned into,
a graveyard of bliss.
harsh sagi
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/life-of-death/
