Mother Earth

The old ones called me Mother Earth, and knew I was sacred. They worshipped my mountains and my rivers, leaving only footprints. And I will always remember – they took only what they needed.

They travelled across my skin looking for comfort, in search of peace. They  knew I was alive and asked questions I freely answered – then they fed me and left me to rest.

 But now most call me dirt and think I have no heart. There is darkness as you strip me naked. You see neither my face nor my tears, and you are deaf to my warnings: my tsunamis, my earthquakes, my floods. You have muted me, and blinded me too.

I am becoming empty and tired. You have burned, raped and stolen from me, and taken out my insides. I know I am captive. As you take more, the less I have to give: soon I will be barren.

I need rich forests on my hillsides again and clean rivers feeding my oceans. I need plants to anchor my soil and to keep my air alive.

Maybe some of you understand that you need me. But I am losing my soul as you have lost yours. If I die, I will be useless to you, and you will be no more.