Are the mother polar bears howling for their young? Oh, where have thou young’eth fled? Their Cubs, just wee little fella’s, escaped the frozen tundra, under their wandrous little paws they had fled.
Are the mother polar bears crying for their young? Oh, they’ve been lost many moons, and still with every last breath they howl to the moon, their breaking voice praying to the clouds.
“They are lost, they are lost,” she cried, “will they ever come back?”
There in a distance, huddled beneath broken ground, in sand, orphaned but now alone again. Her dirty white fur mangled, blood hid behind her ears, she bit away the grief of never finding her ma again.
A cry, a damn near cry shrieked from the heavens, was it her? She opened her eyes, a painful light leaked into her- shone from within out,
She opened her eyes, and her ma stood there, glistening eyes and that warm smile, “you are home again, my Dear.”
“Oh, Ma!” The young cub cried.
I was home again.
I am not you, nor you. I hate this sponge-clothing, oil-soaked, what you say, “human skin”. I do not feast upon the desires of man, I do not feel greed nor anger. No turmoil, no anguish. No, what I am
Is the black sands, what I am is the space. Your mind, that, I am. You sense me, without knowing. I’m a theory, they’ve yet to have known. In the back of your books. The pages that these tiny morsels of life have yet to discover! Given to them, and still they cherish only the mounds of gold they pocket under their gluttonous beaks, guarding and killing off the weaken.
No, what I am,
Is the second chance, the change of the wind, the hope, the life given to the ones who sat and listened.
Yes, what I am,
Is what wakes you up in the morning, what gives you life, I am your breath, let me breathe the cold air into your dying lungs! Sing and gather those amongst you who have always listened.
Sit now…on this stable, balanced rock; this Earth, in this time, and listen…
And that, my darling,
That is what I am.