The keyboard fixates me, blank page beckons and I write.
But to whom I ask? Who will read the words of my heart?
Who will know the longing, the frustration, the angst?
Who will feel, and take it to heart?
Blades of grass bend in the breeze, move to the music
that nature creates. Who will feel as I do?
Can you stand in an open field and shiver at the beauty?
Does the wind blow through you and not around?
Does the song of a bird make your heart weep with joy?
Will the call of a loon bring memories of lost love?
And the wreckage we sow upon the earth? What of that?
Does it make your blood boil with fear and loathing?
We are nature. We are the wind and the rain.
We are the mother and father tenderly holding our child.
We must feel the pain wrought, feel the blood spilled.
Feel the life as our own, feel the bleeding heart.
We must regain what we have lost, join as one.
The desicration must end, must bleed away. The blood
of the land flows through our veins, gives us life.
Feel the sun, wind and rain. Make it your own.