Childish are the thoughts of the white man
as he runs around is playground called Earth.
Free he feels; and full of life
as he spreads his arms
and pretends he is an airplane;
dodging the clouds and the fog.
Untamed and ill-mannered.
Inexperienced to the disappointments of the natural world.
He soars away to the utopian house in which he lives.

Alone in the playground lies Nature,
when it is time for Children to leave their play,
cringing when the gates between the house and yard close.
There is an iron coldness in the darkness that is left behind.
A darkness that is as deep as doubt and as vast as fear.
And Nature, stepped on and ripped apart from Child's play,
picks up its head and speaks the wind.

The wind rushes away
traveling to places that Nature cannot reach.
Places that the broken branches of swords and handfuls of grass will never know.
Wind;
Seeping from the fragments of castles on a beach
to warm those who have far less, and reminding them that the box still contains hope.

At night the Child dreams of another day
where the sunshine is a spotlight,
and he is a magician with a small branch for a wand.
He romps his playground turning stones to candy.
His is ignorant to the fact that the stone will break once he drops it.
He doesn't care; he is joyful in his youthful pride.
But in the same darkness that is seemingly blacker,
Nature stares blankly at the blood droplets cascading off the Raven's beak
as it feeds on Respect and Kindness.
When the Raven spreads its wings to fly away,
the broken trunks of trees whisper the winds to carry it off.

The wind rushes away
traveling to places that Nature cannot reach.
Places that the broken branches of swords and handfuls of grass will never know.
Wind;
Seeping from the fragments of castles on a beach
to warm those who have far less, and reminding them that the box still contains hope.