Which Wink Knows Not

The wink of the lamp, Burns with great fun and frolic In crimson red flame And sucks up the oil from the bottom With much amusement and enthusiasm But he does not know Those drops of oil were once A mass of carbons which Turned into from the pieces of bones Murdered and buried Under hot sand thousands of years ago For the factories, for the wheels of the roads And for the lights to decorate their homes All of these I know Because some of mine For the same cause in the same way Had been taken away For the secure supply of fuels For the coming hundreds of years