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we write our own script
Who are we but our mother's love,
our father's joy - if not
we are still - who we are.
We are seeds of life as plants -
waiting for a spec of life to find its'
way through roots -
roots of trees, plants, and people
serve our world with power from a
single seed - we grow with each step
and learn to fly as a butterfly, to spread
our wings - look up - look up - for I shall
one day pass you by. Take on life as a
butterfly, although human - my wings
have eyes.
Who are we?
Perhaps a silent dream or our nations
hope?
We see both day and night; blind or
sighted.
We touch one another without moving -
kiss without kissing, embrace with our
bravery or simple love.
Who are we if not human.
It does not matter where our feet travel
or what our past crossed treading muddy
roads, above the Rockies, below the sea,
and our minds observe reality.
We smell roses, snap at dragons, feel
velvet of a petal or the sharpness
of a tongue.
Struck by lightening 0n dusty roads -
cry tears in sunshine, feel thunder in our
bones - yet each will stand strong.
Who are we?
We are friends of our own conversation,
pals of the enemy, and relatives of equality
challenged to be rooted by who we are.
Still hearing the echo of who are we?
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