Zug Island

Take me there, please, where men cough and wheeze,

Where emissions and smoke swirl and dance on a breeze,

Where girders and stacks and pipes are the trees;

An oasis of these is Zug Island.

Spellbound, I gaze ‘cross the strait where I stand,

To a factory island — no beaches, no sand;

Instead a fine film of dark soot coats the land.

Life could be grand on Zug Island.

The warm orange glow of a flame paints the sky,

Cargo ships laden with steel pass me by,

A blast furnace calls; I can hear its faint cry. 

I long to reply on Zug Island.

Gas, stench, and steam are its gifts to the air.

The River Rouge issues a toxic flow there,

And you may note, verdant land is quite rare.

No worry or care on Zug Island.

Strange beauty I see in these industry scenes,

Of smoke-blackened buildings and monstrous machines;

Hills of scrap metal and rusty ravines.

No ends, only means on Zug Island.

Yet it is here I reflect on the cost;

The resources, trees, and land we exhaust,

The water and air, polluted and lost.

What bridge have I crossed to Zug Island?