I walked the edges of the volcano and looked at change,
forests dying and reborn, rocks that melted and turned to dust.
There are rivers that cut through time. The earth itself
is getting old and will come to nothing soon enough.
Astronomers and mathematicians are fantasists
who search to fill the void before their Big Bang fairytales.
We vote for change, having no idea what it means,
except maybe having an end to our suffering.
Dear Mr President, will you end our suffering?
Will you bring an end to our poverty? Will you heal our spirit?
In Ribera, surrounded by the noise of farm animals,
the wind in the trees encloses every other sound.
The light is pure golden in the late part of the year
and I'm thinking that perhaps this is all just enough.
I leave these words behind me like fond droppings,
not really caring if someone finds them.
Life has been on this planet three and a half BILLION years,
a quarter of the life of the whole universe.
Our earth is an ancient crone wobbling around an aging sun.
Human beings have been here two hundred thousand years.
I raise my hand in the face of cruelty and complications,
I sign a few petitions, never fooled that this is enough.
Change is coming, the light of the sun finds its seasons.
The earth takes a breath, we come and go.
We expect to wake from this cage of fools.
Miracles do happen and all of us will die.
Change is constant whether we want it or not.
A couple of bucks and hope will get you a cup of coffee.
What can I tell you about change?
I've done my best, now I think I'll leave it alone.