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One could do worse than to be a swinger of birches I think as we consider ourselves to progress we rather lay them down by the side of the road for in nature’s realm live countless ills, so we are told Though by a loving mother were raised we depart her home to travel roads we paved For in no mother’s house may we find joy and her delicate order is but a ploy; ultimately, she who birthed us with love is the cruel conformist against whom we must ourselves prove Oh to conform! As a child I wandered through countless woods my true father accompanying me as he would through his true son in knew the paths by labour long he taught me how the trees could last how bubbling streams and brooks could flow alongside country meadows and rest could be found under sagacious trees’ shadows; those who had known the earth before I was born. Animals feared me not as a lad I think they saw innocence in my curious eyes no fear in their observant hearts needed to be held! But of my own fault I lost sight of my true father and followed one who told me lies. Dark clouds gathered that day as I let go of my loving father’s hand and on that day my mother cried for grief now all the world is to me as lifeless, barren sand and tall skeletal trees once proud bear not a single leaf. |