The Death of Man
The earth was silent now, for the first time since the birth of man. The bombs had come, merciless, unsparing, leaving only the maddening silence, nonexistent for five millenniums.
The planet stormed with despair, cried with grief at the death of her firstborn, for she had nursed him to a fast growth, then while still a child, he had killed himself. For ten thousand years she had worked slowly, tediously, developing her son from mindless brute to civilized man, only to lose him at the first touch of adolescence.
She offered her wood for fuel. He took her coal. She offered beautiful forests for shelter, he stripped them, tilled, and planted the soil. She offered herself, and he reached for the stars. He explored the infinitesimal reaches of the atom, and using this as power, he tore at her bowels, taking all resources.
He conquered her deepest seas, her highest mountains, and she was joyous, rapturous as is a tree, raped by her own beautiful fruit. He fought himself and his own progress for thousands of years with no great avail. Soon, however, he discovered the bomb. Powered by the smallest of particles, it could unleash the power of hell itself on to the remainder of the beautiful planet; the flower of the cosmos. The fruit of the earth did not linger, however, and he dealt himself a death that greatly matched his short life, and disappeared from the earth forever.