Is it that they’ve played their part,
The mountain ranges torn apart,
By men, so willing to bless the sun,
Who part the ground on which it dawns
Is it that they host the stage,
Where beckoned by our constant past,
We tremble in our long for change,
And live and wish, and venture vast.
Is it that the sun will shine,
And let us seek our own despair,
On broken views to which we dine,
That e’er they wonder how we share.
Is it that they mourn their wounds,
When sun it hides behind their grain,
And we don’t see the cracks that loom,
But shout of wind and sun and rain.
Is it that the trees they trust,
Lumber in the dark of night,
Or eavesdrop on our songs of dust,
And wait to end such a plight.
Is it that long ago,
They answered us in strength and tone,
And left their thoughts for soil to sow,
Majestic in their fallen know.
Is it that year on year,
They flourish in the frames of time,
To make their message bright and clear,
And show us not to be sublime.
Or are they gracious,
For their mystery tried,
And lodged, in the scorns of clocks,
And ticks and tocks, and ticks and tocks.