I own the trees so I cut them down,

To build my house on fields brown.

I own the fields so I plough them dry,

To plant my crops beneath the sky.

I own the sky, I care not if life there withers,

For yet I have my ancient rivers.

I own the waters; I may poison them at will,

And fish them barren, I have the forests still.

But the last tree has fallen, just desert sand,

A home without a garden, no beautiful land.

The fields are barren, no crops will grow,

Though my hunger grows, of that I know.

And there is no air left to breathe, no breath left in me,

The rivers run dry, for rain I make plea.

Dying here, I see, I cannot own the place of my birth,

It does not belong to me; I belong to the Earth.