Sweet red runners bloom,

Inside the mechanized room;

Patches of dirt soil and rust,

Bear the world’s remaining trust.

Left barren and lifeless,

The land weeps in distress;

Now dry, devoid of life,

She bears nothing but strife.

Their greed now forgotten,

Survivors turn to the heavens;

Blind to their history,

They repeat their misery.

A robot revolution,

An earthly imitation;

Pods of dirt and metal;

Their bid for survival.

A mechanical womb,

Where hope lies entombed;

Hold robots and berries,

Defying memento mori.

Yet this too proves fleeting,

As the last of the sowers sing;

Bright red berries lay crushed,

Under their mechanical carer’s hush.