Fulfilled and yet so empty, happy yet so sad,

So filled with love and goodness yet so bad.

The being born and living out the span

Allotted you is so much like a chore

At times. It’s at such times I wish that I’d

Have not been born, and then I wonder why’d

I not been born more stalwart, of a more

Or less more stoic nature, more disposed to stand

Against the storm that living is. A better brain

To understand it better too, the Why.

And why the wish to cease to be, to die?

Why not the wish to stay around and rave

Against too many mouths to feed, to save

The world from too much light, from getting hotter?

Following the simple plan of one tree

Planted at a time, the teeter totter

Could regain its balance, could refreeze

The waters round the poles. By planting trees

And killing babies by the billions, we

Could keep the Earth from slipping past the tipping

Point. By starting at extremes and chipping

Off both kinds of growth, the kind that ought to be

Already gone and that not yet begun. If wise

You’ll whittle down the numbers to a size

That She can cope with, be a Mother to,

Or you’ll die out, as other creatures do.

The struggle for existence just begun,

The show already over with and done,

No more of anything to show and tell

And nothing but the breeze to toll the bell.


Draft 2 5 mar 09 6 fri d fulgham

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