It is said that when one dies
It feels like a return home,
Back to that expansive nothingness
Where we originally came from.
Within the universe's embrace
We are lonely multitudes, longing to belong
Our bodies composed from debris of dead stars:
Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen and Carbon.
Millennia after millennia,
Through grasslands we would roam.
Until an ambivalent trick of fate
Led us to wall-in designated zones.
Self declared victors of the land
Made tools with wood and stone,
Until Earth herself was parsed apart,
Her inhabitants, each to their own.
Divisions expand between inside and out,
Land becomes property of the throne.
Purpose redefined as service,
And responsibilities disowned.
Illusion of plentitude and abundance,
From the hands of those who've sewn.
Widening the disparity of prosperity,
Between those who own vs. loan.
The machine of mass production
Respects neither tooth nor bone.
Corrupted is our mission,
We are losing our only home.
