Before the time of other lands
there were flowers, rivers, streams,
and the glorious unseen
on the side-lines of a life.
They didn’t shout out “Look at me”
or beat the drum of self-image
but merely did their level best
to stay as they were made.
But for all who live in other lands
it’s impossible to stay as made
amidst the shouting, beating drums,
and the cacophony of money
that deafens the awakened.
The flowers bloom and die,
the streams and rivers flow elsewhere,
and of the glorious unseen
they bow their heads in shame
because they were once like you and me
encased within a false veneer.
We still have flowers, rivers, streams,
and the glorious unseen
but they bubble now like cauldrons do
and soon will overflow the brim
of quiet forbearance.
There’s a trickle now of that
in the bosom of this other land
and when death outweighs the baby boom
we’ll know the scales of justice
are doing their level best
to stay as they were made!
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