The Last Dream of a Panda

Beneath a veil of smog and dying trees,

The last lone panda dreams in monochrome.

No verdant feast, no playful bamboo breeze,

Just concrete jungles where wild wonders groan.

He sees, in sleep, a past his kind once knew,

Of emerald slopes where sunlight kissed the dew,

Of endless green, where rivers gently purred,

And laughter echoed, carefree and unheard.

He wakes to silence, dust upon his brow,

The echoing emptiness, a mournful vow.

His belly rumbles, hunger's gnawing ache,

But bamboo dreams are all his future makes.

He climbs a steel and glass, a mirrored maze,

A fractured image of forgotten days.

The moon, a distant memory, so pale,

Reflects a teardrop, glistening and frail.

In that last dream, a whisper on the breeze,

He sees a world where pandas roam with ease,

Where children sing, and forests stand so tall,

And hope, like bamboo, rises one and all.

Then fades the dream, the panda all alone,

A silent tear, a future yet unknown.

But in his heart, a flicker softly burns,

The last panda's dream, for which the future yearns.