Sing of Mother Earth, who we must tend, as grateful sons and daughters, born to soil and water. Flame’s fury and wind’s breath as our natural inheritance, the landscape has a face, the rivers run as blood, the rocks as jagged bones…
Let me be that tree, so that the scent of pine will remind the world that someone must have meant it. I will be a singing sentinel, and that which breathes life into death. The raven has no part with the pine, nor the blackthorn with the dove.