In the slow stride of galaxies is heard
the pulse of countless veins:
our enormous
our infintesimal
wound about the finger and beneath the foot,
you we ride and wear like diamonds
like the tiara of a distant queen.
All of evolution has led to this moment.
Our epicycle without end
is etched in the blackness
and we trace our path like Demosthenes,
intent upon the sand.
When at last, green mother,
you have withered to dust and old air
and the one eye falters and fades,
when we stand on other hills
under other suns
we shall not forget that it was you who bore us.
We shall not forget
your sweet water
your fragrant soil
the sound of your breath upon the sea.
the pulse of countless veins:
our enormous
our infintesimal
wound about the finger and beneath the foot,
you we ride and wear like diamonds
like the tiara of a distant queen.
All of evolution has led to this moment.
Our epicycle without end
is etched in the blackness
and we trace our path like Demosthenes,
intent upon the sand.
When at last, green mother,
you have withered to dust and old air
and the one eye falters and fades,
when we stand on other hills
under other suns
we shall not forget that it was you who bore us.
We shall not forget
your sweet water
your fragrant soil
the sound of your breath upon the sea.
