The leaves of tall, mortal trees
(Part of the landscape of every free nation,
(Part of the immortal seed)
Withered, bitten and stained
Like good, decent men—
Loyal to the roots
Loyal to the birth of mortality, our humanity
Loyal to the foundation and structure constructed
By men who came before, standing large and proud
Though none higher than our mortal trees
(Part of the singular deity),
Bearing many different kinds of sweet, juicy fruit in our time,
And for tens of thousands of generations coming before,
History tells us.
If man were lucky
He might touch,
Nest, nurture and grow for himself
A roundish piece of ripened unique, maybe a few—
But will man ever ask himself if this is worth going to war for?
Does man ever ask himself what is worth going to war for?
We are all instinctual animalistic things.
What do I preserve?
What do I protect?
Who do I serve?
Questions go unasked.
Am I more than this influx of adrenaline?
That which I have named,
That which I have observed.
We are all freed men, those standing under unwavering flags of “justice,”
Yet all we do is fight amongst ourselves.
And every season men die faster
Then leaves already falling
Come to rest at the feet of grieving widowers—
Many words on the lips of men and women.
Like those in captivity having no voice,
For we must be their voice,
And yet we turn a blind eye—
It is no wonder,
For we stumble in search of our own
Clumsily interrupting the peaceful silence of dark.
We cannot see clearly the very truth,
That this is no dilemma, free against free—
It is illusion, a perpetual, worldwide, drama-plagued hypocrisy
That will rot and die with the unified enactment of a single vision:
Uniting all of man
Or else each tree will fall.
There is almighty fruit of this generation
That can spell the end for us all.