Holy Compost!

As we bury these books full of hatred
We notice that nobody mourns
And we wonder, though roses were planted,
Might it only grow briars and thorns?

But no–we’ll see beautiful blossoms
And the reason (it seem so, to me)
Is, the carbon long bound to this folly
Is delighted, at last, to be free

And the earth could be covered with flowers
And the world could be given a chance
If we hammer our swords into plowshares
And recycle our myths into plants

Cuttlecap tip to PZ, of course.


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