These simple lines,
When combined,
Into complex thoughts,
Simple phonemic symbols,
Ancient poets wrought,
With power to make one tremble.
Epics lyrical,
Conceptual miracles,
Tales of dawn’s hero’s,
Arjuna of old,
Achilles so bold.
Through time,
We forgot,
The lessons they taught,
Reverence of nature,
from whom’s bosom we nurtured.
When childlike,
In virgin-woods we hiked.
We explored,
And the first-children adored.
Before we self-reveled,
And great mountains leveled.
For what?
For naught.
For paper gold,
Our mother we sold.
To the muses I pray,
For the eloquence to say,
Of the pains I see,
That we make be,
With the felling of so many a tree.
In the glades,
Under canopy shade,
Is where I would have my relics laid.
Forevermore,
These earthy remains,
In the bosom I adore.
