Driving along Margalla Avenue,
I saw the peaks aflameโ
blazing torches against the darkened sky,
illuminating the north of the capital
in an unholy glow.
Loud cracks shatter the stillness,
resounding through jungle and neighborhood alike.
Terror uncoils, sharp and merciless,
as life flees:
birds blinded by smoke fall mid-flight
into the trap of darkling flames,
and beasts leaped blindly from ridge to ridge,
their cries swallowed by the inferno.
The fire spares no soul.
Strong or weak, towering or tenderโ
all succumb to its relentless hunger.
House sparrows had once lived here,
before the trees were felled to make way for highways.
They nested anew in the nearby hills,
seeking refuge from human cacophony.
A deer stumbles from the inferno,
Turning back, her eyes pleading,
Her fawns too weak to outrun
This fire born of human greed.
The fire spreads and spreads,
turning the green heart of the hills
into a barren blackness.
Cypress and pine, walnut and acacia,
all reduced to smoldering husk.
Itโs the work of campers, they say,
or the timber mafia,
or the poor seeking fuel for winter.
But I see the culpritsโ
the real estate crooks,
the sprawling gated colonies,
the fossil-fueled shiny SUVsโฆ
Their neon promises of convenience and luxury
burned through the heart of these hills,
turning sparrows and doves into ashes.
I once believed mountains were tougher,
The eternal sentinels against rapacity.
Always hoped, beyond the neon signs,
There would be getaways,
On fields and farms, pines, and snow-covered peaks.
And I thought human greed would not surpass
My time on earth.
What do I feel now?
The woods are burning, retreating, receding
Time, William, Time.
They scream for more,
More villas near the hills
More parking lots.
Builders and developers sending their kids
to shiny destinations in Europe and the Gulf.
They are on the rampage
In connivance with generals, judges and journalists,
Property tycoons and rapacious politicians,
โa whole cast of crooks and tarts.โ
The Margalla Hills, where winters once brought snow,
will live on but in framesโ
in galleries, behind glass,
a memory to marvel at,
an elegy to what was lost.