Sometimes it feels the world is an abandoned place

her inhabitants are lost, they forget how to live

the world is what her visitors make of it

some try, but often fail, fall and get up again

~

She’s home for the power-hungry, the thieves and truth twisters

sometimes it’s more convenient to believe a lie and hold on to it,

to be blind and be distracted or lulled to sleep like a child

they don’t listen to her anymore, maybe they never did

~

She sees the devils in disguise, the sheep and wolves

the ideologies and the wars fought over them

only bloodshed and despair people get

no shooting stars but bombs instead

~

She sighs.… and looks at the flowers

some dwellers may be sick and want to cut them all

but they can’t keep spring from coming

it’s what an old poet once wrote

~

She knows this poet didn’t forget how to live, 

he could only feel lost in words and love

when a newborn lamb walks unsteady in the world

a tree gives its first fruit

the clouds gather to bring rain

and seasons come and go

no single human can have a say

~

For every witch burnt a daughter returns

it’s a rhythm, a cycle, a way

the world always keeps holding on to

us, visitors, might have abandoned her with our follies

except for some poet here and there

who still believed in her full circle of life and death

because that’s what she’s always been

for as long as we live.

~