Saturday, December 03, 2005

More Poetry

We are the children of ignoble birth;
we are the generation lost in the mists.
We are the inheritors of a decrepit Earth;
we are those whose souls shall persist.
With the rising air of the morning fog,
we dance through clouds and refuse to relent.
Through cries of blessed children and baying of frightened dogs,
we hear and heed the message 'twas sent.
To love ourselves and each other more,
to see our friends as true brothers,
Together outstretched, our hands push slowly the door,
and passingthe way, reach back for those others.
For in this way, and this alone,
shall we all abide together
in our warm, beautiful, loving home.



Happy Holidays, kids...