This, my earth,
whose waters eddy and fill
the contours of this planet’s surface
and never end, nor begin.
This, my earth,
whose very mineral life
is taken up into the hands
of small men with too-big ambition.
This, my earth,
whose fires burn deep inside
and turn, whose fires spume
and crack the infinite air.
This, my earth,
in spirit only, not
my earth in name – an
elemental has no face.
This, my earth,
that which renders all struggle futile,
that which is only being,
depending not on the borrowed ‘I’.
This, my earth.
This, your earth. This
our earth. This earth is us,
we it, until we move
in you once more
and live the fallacy that we call ‘to die’.
