Answer and Explanation:
MOTHER EARTH: You sprung from me ages ago – my children, my offspring, my flesh. I raised you, took care of you, fed you, gave you shelter. I taught you, through my own phenomena, how to better yourselves and your lives. I taught you to make fire. I taught you to build dams. I taught you to grow crops, to tame animals, to stop hunting. I taught you to build houses and live in communities. I watched, filled with pride, as you evolved, treading upon my own skin. If only I had known what you were capable of. Did I underestimate you? Or did I make myself blind to your ambitions because I loved you so much? Fire, water, wood… they became your weapons. Perhaps, at first, you were unaware of the consequences. Maybe you did not understand you were hurting me. The smoke, the residues, they were side-effects of your progress. You believed I would take care of it all - that pollution would magically disappear in my entrails. But you can no longer claim to be ignorant. You can no longer hurt me unknowingly. Oh, you do know! You can see it now – feel it. You can watch as I slowly die and take you with me. You can feel my fragile balance collapsing, tragically, rapidly. You exploded me, dirtied me, broke me. My own children are my killers.
