With a trowel I scrape a strip of skin,
A strip of skin off Gaia, our Mother.
I spread it out till it is parchment-thin,
And parchment it is on mysteries lettered:
With scars of ferric bleeds in rusty red,
Sulphur spit of yellow from fiery vents,
And ivory quartz frothed out of seabed,
Upon sable clay steeped in zesty scents—
Every hue itself a vital essence,
Every grain of sand a unique story.
Mother cradles us with timeless patience,
And blankets our dead with equal glory.
In awe I kiss the graceful face, the scroll,
And hear the aeons whisper in her sand,
From the dust and ashes of every soul
To all the heartbeats held within her hand:
May the flesh and hues in her own likeness
Never live to hear the sound of her knell,
But, by trading our folly for kindness,
Nurse our Mother back to the pink of health.
Thanks to Björn’s awesome prompt in dVerse’s Poetics: Soil, I believe I have just scribbled myself a new favourite.
Photo Courtesy: atelier3dcouleur.com