(Forty Lines for Forty Years)
Fealty fallout from the vacuous vocation,
More than forty years after Carson’s call.
The goddess, Gaia, demands supplication,
From those who dare to stand up tall.
Your hubris offends me, I am the Land.
I provide the foundation upon which you live.
I’m wounded by the marks left by your hand,
Your undying obeisance is what you must give.
We stop the chemicals that thin the shells,
We allow the mosquitoes that carry disease.
As pride in ability to conquer swells,
We’re driven to amends down on our knees.
Man is but a speck upon the Earth.
A fragile species: A dot in time.
How much do you think your life is worth?
Nature’s wisdom against unnatural crime.
But to whom shall our homage be paid,
For living by means to which we have arisen?
Long ago to Mother Earth we prayed,
Long before we understood that which is given.
The Earth has not wisdom, nor feelings, nor thought,
But materials and systems we must understand.
The Earth is but earth, ours to be wrought.
Not returned to brutality – not to be unmanned.
Knowing so, what hold does Gaia keep still?
What explains why these wretched ideas persist?
Some shape man’s world by sheer force of will,
While others claim we’re wrong to even exist.
Their god from the machine is gold in the stream:
Our ability to create value from rocks and trees.
Their tact, give back, for achieving man’s dream,
Supported by goring government policies.
I reject their tithe on behalf of the slime,
I reject their entreaties to walk small.
I reject their claim on my effort and time,
I reject their man-hating premises, all.
Let this be remembered: as far as we get,
We should never look back and sigh,
Ours was the Earth—we were never the threat.
Man must exploit its resources, or die.