Friday, March 31, 2006

Poor is the land that carries dead soil
From far comes the wind that moves it
Burdened the folk that tarry awhile
And not tending it merely abuse it
We once had an Eden where grasses grew tall
And crickets hummed their sweet music
The fragrant abundance matured in the fall
Hands harvested, cherished and used it.

Come brothers and sisters, return to your task
Embrace what is yours—give it ferment
You know that without it your soul cannot last
Find your heart—be the earth’s willing servant.
Build a vessel for life from wealth wide and vast
A bequest to the children you parent
It will unchain your limbs, your true purpose unmask
And reward you with praise ever fervent.

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