Rendering itself useless now,
the elements of Nature
first borned by Man
to work for him have gone rabid.
But in wisdom still,
the moon continues
to pull the oceans by great force
and gently lays the rolling waves
on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.
The wind if amortized,
would harness its power
to push the plow.
And sun, first born of woman
would gladly warm
the earth’s chilled bones
and never cast a shadow.
The earth would form the nested nettle
where foot transgressed,
with pleasure support
the frame of man forever.
Air in bunches note
the going in and coming out of men
and upholds their stance, untiringly;
gladly yielding itself to noble ends.
Relegating himself to the beggar’s position
of that which man himself created,
the Art is lost and in its stead
small triumphs rise.
Birth and death are Nature’s saviors
from raping her in anger.