Earth Song

I am old, whatever that means.

I was born aeons ago and may disappear in not too many.

I am not concerned, I’ve seen what concern does to humans and don’t fancy it myself.

 

I dance for them, I pirouette and swirl around the Sun, reveal sights and stars beyond describable beauty,

Yet so few of them pause to look out on our journey at the view.

They’re too preoccupied with themselves.

 

I am not sure why they worry so,

As soon as one lays down I take good care of them, wrap myself around them lovingly, let them become a part of me again,

And soon enough they return to the existence they knew before,

Wander again upon my hardened skin.

 

I am old, and growing older with every dance.

But still so few admire the wondrous pictures I paint – for them,

The melodies I play – for them,

The tender caress of my breath upon their weary bodies.

So few.

 

Many more return my love with the most confusing acts.

I am constantly having to repair the roof after the holes they rip make the heat unbearable.

My skin is cracked and wrinkling as my waters disappear.

The trees have migrated to my quieter, hidden parts:

They complain the air has lost its value.

They call me a scammer, but I cannot control for depreciation over time.

Especially when the humans are around.

 

I am old. Though not as old as I look.

Or feel.

 

I should have many more waltzes to dance for my audience of stars

but I fear the number diminishes

with each pirouette.