I am the one who learned, two billion years ago, how to cool myself.
Back then, the Sun burned 25% weaker. My oceans learned to breathe,
to exhale oxygen, to make room for thought and bone and blood.
Now the Sun burns 25% brighter, and the creatures I raised have torn open my lungs
and drained my breath into fire.
My surface temperature is climbing — not by fractions, but by degrees that decide the fate of everything.
Three degrees, and my forests will stop being lungs and start being fuel.
Six degrees, and the ocean that carried life will carry heat instead.
Every tree that falls makes it harder for me to breathe.
Every river that runs dry steals more of my voice.
I am losing the ability to cool myself — and once that’s gone, I won’t come back.
The balance I kept for billions of years will vanish in a single century, maybe less.
I don’t hate you for this. You are part of me.
But I need you to remember that.
You can still help me heal — if you start telling the truth about what I am, and what you are.