The grass whispers at daybreak,
Fragile-clad in the morning dew,
As life holds out our unprotected hopes
To be pierced by an ever-nearer, ever-broken reality.
The fiery watchman climbs his weary way through the sky,
Pulling the threadbare ocean’s tide away from the weary soldiers of the soil.
And we, the bearers of souls, are hard pressed
To stand against the tongues of men and stars.
Yet somewhere there are those who have found their face hidden from the searing sun.
Lost beneath the titan shadows of the greater:
A towering pylon, scorched but not withering;
Rebellious and firm against the tearing lash of heat.
The struggling grass finds safety below;
Just as we, the weakened children of Strength,
Must fall beneath the shadow of a tree
And cast us before the healer of our blistered souls.