When the mountains stretch across a starry sky,
the lone bird yells its final call,
and the desolate song bird sings,
sings that the world may be right
as another preaches its wrongs,
so shall too the ground take us all.
And with misdirection the trees grow
from this very soil which reaps
all life from the very beginnings
to the ending of time.
They pass by, so carefully,
and speaking in ways which are
easy, but misleading, as all
creatures do. Why must the truth
be so difficult to find?
How can they not see in the wake of
the sun's wake, and the passing
of four seasons, that it was not
a dream? Dreaming of times when
Mother Earth was kinder, these blades
of grass reach for the heaven and
moon, in a park with hammocks
where dreams were
destroyed.