The towering cliffs flinch;
When the waves crash upon them, grasping;
For they know that none;
Can resist the sea;
Elegant furrows, living in a paradise;
Of perfect order;
A hundred thousand seasons pass;
The plows crumble;
Into feeble rust;
And the Wild weaves its throne from;
Vines and moss once-shunned as chaotic;
And imperfect;
This Earth is not a sphere of glass;
Where every shape is kept in stasis;
The world is built;
To be destroyed- it is alive;
And nature is its blood.
Unspoken Politics 