A Hollow Interval

The year's ending soon.
Part of it's worth fantasizing.
Hell knows what's touching our senses.
Hope I would come to meet someone who could foresee the future,
like unfolding pages in novel in advance.
When the future, will, be bright and nice,
it is a sin to tell out before it comes to realization.
While the future's going to be devastating,
it is a sin to not tell out even though,
I wonder, anyone could foresee that.

The earth's becoming hotter, gradually,
there, hardly is a place to breath,
even air with dusts swarmed aghast,
even breeze with dim sunlight hung askance, still as ever,
you and I stood for living necessities evaporated like,
been-hopeful, current-realized mirage.

Hopes slowly became a fragile silhouette.
There's no vacancy for human beings, no lungs for storing air.
When years and years embellished, decades to come,
between them are nothing,
but a blank plot,
an empty story of hollow intervals.