The trees are not green in our honour.
The flowers do not bloom in colourful
glory for our amusement.
Nature does not burst forth each spring
as if beholding to people.
We are not the purpose of the majestic
lustful rebirth.
No bird sings its tune for our ears.
It is not at our discretion that life
is, though we seem to think so.
What ego we have to think of some
mastery of the things that we must have,
things we will not live without.
They do not need us, and without us
will thrive.
They will not cease to bloom, sing,
procreate just because we are gone on the wind.
Open your eyes weak humans, know that
you are but a wisp in the full gale of nature,
know that you are not the master but
the prodigy of all that is.
Cast your eyes on your reflection and
see now a being with no greater grandeur than the dandelion or the
butterfly.
No purpose, but to be as the fish, the
beaver, and the maple just are.
