The Earth Song

The earth.
The massive blue home of human
beings. A globe
bursting with life and a
soft fire inside its belly. In
a dark corner of
the forest of the universe,
a glimmering speck is
the earth. Galaxies with no
name know of no language, what is
laughter to them? Billions
of light years away,
in another corner
of this desolate
universe, there are gods exploding
like stars and immortality
is the winedark
sea. Ghosts of dead
galaxies haunt the darkness stretched
out beyond the
green fields of thought. Out in
the endless vacuum,
there are worlds
of blackness; there are cannibal stars;
there are distant constellations
blinking like fireflies and
there are no mothers,
no smiling children. Rivers
of darkness scream
and burn. They fuse with other
dark oceans and the
tiniest pinpricks of life are swallowed
up in time. Stars are
immune to the pain of separation.
They morph and twist
into each other like
heartless creatures, their souls
are designed to destroy. The earth
is a moth, circling a
flickering ball of flames.
The earth.
An oasis of blue and white wisps.
A speck of lively dust,
in the sandstorm
of nothingness.
The instinct to disintegrate
is a fluttering butterfly inside
every atom; it
awaits perfect weather and flees
itself, only to be transformed
again, in an unending
journey from form to form.
From plastic trees to ecstatic supernovas,
from human hearts to
parasites of antimatter. The fathers
of all men are
electric bolts and we are the
children of a miracle.
Miracles are little insects in this vast,
airless forest.
A blue miracle is the earth.
With its flowing contours and gardens
of light. With its
flowers and volcanoes, its
trenches and snowy peaks, its burning
caves of heat
and glittering streams of water.
The earth gave birth to life. It detached
itself from the
burning rocks and
swam in the oceans, it feasted
and grew a spine, it sprouted
wings and soared
through the blue, it leaped
from trees and howled warnings at the
moon, and so on,
until it became man and wrote
itself a poem.


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