They fall like leaves,
and drift away, bouncing,
on curled crisp corners,
aged by the season,
the wind blows them,
not caring, no reason
where they land.

But they are not leaves,
nor are they believers,
they are in touch, not
with the Earth,
not with second birth,
some still think, they
need to earn their worth.

They are blood and flesh,
a thread knotted enmeshed,
in a society they don't want,
they are the uprising,
setting upon action
as there is a sunrising,
they have hopes, dreams, and mirth.

They want their day Canada,
they are willing to work smarter to prove it,
don't feed them the Desiderata,
say they have the heart and a future,
                                                                                         can you do that?