Green

The moon is beautiful
Like a big, green tile.
Evergreen trees risk being
Burnt alive just because
 they are growing attentively,
Sipping the sun with greed,
 and the green leaves
wrestle with 
 prophets and chess pawns.
If you move forward one space
  defeat becomes
 a reliable victory.
I am near my workplace,
I am washing my hands, my mouth,
 my mask.
I have removed my
absent, torn, conspicuous,
instantly regretful smile.
My fingers are made out
of pure conscience
Like the llamas' hooves
in Peru.

I am near an upside down bin
kicked memorably
like those 
slave owners' statues
in parks:
lords, kings, queens
and fusiliers,
 Crunched white pieces of paper
resting permanently on the grass.

How round is any planet
compared to Earth?
Do we live long enough
to fall in love and crave for it?