Sylvi Stein
Hunter College High School, ‘21
“I feel powerless when I read the news, when I hear what's being done to our planet. We children are the ones inheriting the earth, and Climate Speaks gave me an opportunity to take action when no one else did. The earth cannot defend itself against the horrors being inflicted upon it. It is our duty to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.”
Sylvi was born and raised in New York City. She has been writing poetry since fourth grade, due to the encouragement of her 4th grade teacher. The natural environment is her main source of inspiration, and she enjoys photography. An aspiring journalist, she hopes to work for National Geographic and travel the world with the hopes of revealing to others the ways in which the planet is worth protecting.
The Great Barrier Reef Is Dead
This is what my mother says
as she drops the groceries on the table.
This is what the TV says
on the eight o’clock news
(but not the six o’clock, nor the ten o’clock)
This is the sound of a scream
a statistic
a silence
Sorry tomorrow, sorry yesterday,
Sorry my children, grandchildren, my roots,
my branches, my buds, my fruit
Sorry little girl, dreaming of octopi and jellyfish,
sorry little sister. Sorry we did not try to swim
until we were drowning, and some of us not even then.
Sorry coral-bright cuttlefish, sorry dazzling pacific porpoises
sorry flickering underwater fireflies.
Sorry you shrank while we grew.
Sorry it ended this way. Sorry it did not have to.
Hope is a tiny, glowing thing that takes root
between anemones and art class
between happiness and the horizon
between the moment before you know and the moment after.
The Great Barrier Reef is dead.
I dreamt last night I could breathe underwater --
I tasted salt against my tongue, I kicked my feet and they were fins
I dreamed a vibrant world beneath the surface
the laughing seagrass kissed my toes
strands of pearls curled themselves in my hair
You are dreaming, they sang as I swam on
You are dreaming, the bubbles whispered against my skin
You are dreaming, sobbed the slow, endless tide.
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
The Great Barrier Reef is dead.
In dreams, the ocean learns to speak
to tell us of tomorrow.
All look, but most do not see
you tug the noose that strangles me
but still the current sweeps us on.
The children know. I am not yet gone.
