A Poet
The modern Poetess writes not because she wants to form words on a page, but because she loves the rhyming and verses that flows around in her head, getting the issue resolved for the next poetic generation to come:

The words fly
And return ever,
Their place of birth,
The silence...

So let you share her,
All your secret messages,
From your heart to her soul,
Will die with you...

The words fly,
Without leaving any trace,
A light beam, a little air,
Lost in the middle of nowhere...

It gets across the point if the earth really is alive,
If you were interviewing a butterfly,
Standing on the branch of an oak tree.
Now, a butterfly lives only for a few days
But an oak tree can live for over a thousand years.
If you were to ask the butterfly:
Do you precede the object of which your standing is being alive?
The butterfly would say: of course not. I've been here all my life
It is all five days, and the tree hasn't done a thing
Well, it's the same problem with the human being
If you would ask a person
Perhaps one that's lived for a hundred years
They precede the earth, which is really 5 billion years old, is being alive
They would say: of course not. I've been here my whole life, and it hasn't done a thing.
The earth really is alive.