The climate does not shout.
It whispers in the rustle of melting ice,
in the hesitation of spring to arrive,
in the heavy sighs of the ocean.

It is not angry, though we pretend it is.
It is not kind, though we once thought so.
It simply responds — to every engine, every forest fallen,
every spark we called progress.

Children will ask why snow became rare,
why the sky seems tired,
why the wind feels different.
And we will say:
"We were busy. We thought there was time."

But time, like the climate, does not wait.
It shifts, it changes, it leaves behind
those who refuse to listen.