Arrogant we are
each night, and night again,
to look upon a sea of stars
where not a soul has been,
and still believe if we were gone
the moon would cease to yawn;
no one would remember
that it's slumber brought the dawn.
The wind that whispers in our ear,
echoing the Earth,
in a way intends to say
"Recall who gave you birth,
for although you grow in number,
you really needn't fear,
I'm not as frail or fragile as I apparently appear."
And then She sheds a solemn tear,
which we mistake for blood,
when in reality
She's seen many a flood.
Though I suppose it could be sweat,
as such a weight we are to bear,
burdensome, like morning dew
is to mountain air.
We silly children never care
to overestimate our Mother,
foolish as we ever are
to think She won't recover,
yet should She decide to turn aside,
weary of our humble pride,
naught would stand between us
and Her fires gold and waters wide.