I'm off to meet my
friendly foe, the one who bows
and begs,
"Don't go,"
The one which whispers
into my ear, coining words
that are warm
and clear.
He speaks in circles to
no end, then stops and starts
all over again.
He pours his tea all over
me, then sits and borrows
my largest sea.
He's off to make a fool
of me and sing my brain far
off key.
Oh, friend, rest your
weary head; oh, con-man so evil,
please drop dead!

Population
From the green trees so
gothicly staged upon all hills,
To the old forgotten
stream by the water mill,
To the ivy perched
gracefully along a windowsill...
From the fenced-in yards
of this suburbian world,
To the ancient valcanos
who have forgotten their toil,
To the small dotted
forests around the world...
From the lonely country
roads along the sea,
To your mind and miles
too far to see,
to miles before, under,
over and after me...
There is man.
Man is the admirer,
Whatever illusion he
possesses, it is false.
Man is the admirer.
Nature struggles day in,
century out.
Pruning her branches and
strengthening her spouts.
Seeing nothing and
possessing all.
Man is the admirer.
Whatever his illusion of
natural selection may be.
Man is the admirer.
No castle has nature, no
arboretum is man's.
Nature is cooled, but not
by electric fans;
fish of the sea and birds
of the air.
Man is the admirer.
Whatever illusion has
sidetracked him is false.
Man is but the admirer.
I think, I build, I
sweat, I bleed, I swear, I destroy,
I have conquered nations.
Nature has conquered
nothing -
but has won over all. |