Plastic was born from fire,

from the spark of human genius,

a dream poured into moulds,

a miracle shaped by hands that wanted more—

more strength, more lightness, more forever.

It was the promise of progress,

the anthem of invention,

the shining crown of civilisation.

But listen—

every miracle carries a shadow,

and plastic’s shadow is long,

stretching across oceans,

settling on riverbeds,

floating like ghosts in the waves.

Once it was hope.

Now it is hunger—

wrapping itself around turtle necks,

choking the songs of seabirds,

silencing the colours of coral.

It is forever,

but forever does not forgive.

It does not bend to time,

it does not crumble to dust,

it lingers,

it whispers in the soil,

it creeps into the air,

it breaks into fragments too small to see,

yet sharp enough to pierce the breath of life.

Plastic is not just plastic.

It is memory—

the memory of our carelessness.

It is a mirror—

reflecting greed, reflecting ease,

reflecting our blindness to tomorrow.

It is a question—

what have we done,

and what will we do now?

Will we drown in what we created,

or will we rise?

Rise with voices louder than factories,

rise with hearts stronger than profit,

rise with courage that dares to say—

this ends with us.

Because plastic was our making,

but its ending,

its story,

its destiny—

is waiting for us to write.