Here is a small poem about a big subject:
Listen, my parents,
the grasses are crawling,
the trees are all thrumming.
Soon, birds won’t be able to sing.
Listen. Hear me. Our time
is for turning. If the old ways don’t die, we can’t win.
Listen, my children:
our grasses are crawling,
our trees, yes, they’re thrumming,
birds know what they know as they sing.
Listen. Hear it. True time.
It’s still calling. Lay down your despairing. Join in.
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