See before you a silver light.
Liquid motions shape its space,
its time is kept by the beat of hearts,
the pulse that starts beneath your feet:
the Earth, its smell the sound of ocean stones,
holds the throne on which
your ancestors sit, those that let your life.
Their eyes the silver light;
their blood, their hair
this night.
With your breath, with your sight,
the light is drawn into your roots
than shoots to the leaves
and weaves,
shaking
and breaking,
making doorways of sieves,
and though it fades
it never leaves.

It is we.