On A Dying Planet Poem by Fadhil Al Azzawi

The air is foul in the room,
But no one opens the window.
We carry our books in our left hands,
But no one asks us for forgiveness.
The corpse is lying in the cellar,
But no one cries.
We had to discover fire again
Before crossing our valley at night.
We had to pay our outstanding bills
Before giving birth to our happy babies
In laboratory tubes.
We should have consoled our Neanderthal ancestors
Before driving them away
To the mountains.
No hope of returning again
To the forest.
Aliens in a UFO
Are waving to me from behind their glass.
Countless planets and galaxies
Have been always awaiting my arrival
Impatiently.
What am I doing here?