We may still have a little while
to grow our corn on this garden isle
as it pirouettes through the Milky Way,
but maybe not - who can say.
Her cobalt oceans, once pristine,
her virgin forests that burgeoned green
and her amber waves of grain
have been stained with rivers of red.
This tiny gem is hanging by a thread.
Meanwhile, we push and shove
to stake out our claim.
We fight over lines in the dirt
and kill in God's name.
Some say the answer lies in waging war
to end the violence, to right the score.
Some say it lies with prayer -
some with leaders or with laws.
I say it's hopeless, if we don't treat the deeper cause.
How can we ever legislate
a state of peace, an end to hate?
A peaceful world can only be
when we all see beyond the boundary
of us and them, and me and you
to one Self - and to that self be true.
Who here would cut their own arm
or starve their own child
or let any part of themselves
be harmed or defiled?
We may still have a little while
to fly our flags on this garden isle
as it pirouettes through the Milky Way.
But maybe not - who can say.
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