Born of the shudders of the
earth,
she's the plough that tills the
soil,
the green blades of abundance,
and the silent labour
of the wriggling worms
and the marching millipedes.
She's the wick,
the dance of a flame,
the tongues of an engulfing fire
which consume forests whole,
and its ashen grounds
from where new life awakens.
She's the vessel--
the water inside,
she's the million waves
which kiss every beach,
she's the wild of the sea
and the calm of the deep.
She's the howling wind,
the tinkle of the chimes,
the carefree spirit
of an unleashed kite,
she's the soaring wings,
and dreamy romances.
She's the spin and the scent
of a potter's wheel,
the rumbling rage of the planet,
its voracious appetite that
swallows
every king, every army,
every hubris, every past.
She's the being,
the vast nothingness,
the before, the after,
the now, and the sweet hereafter,
every fleeting moment,
and time itself.
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