When men become more gentle and the forests live in peace;

When will it come, when will it start, when will the violence cease.

We’re like a tribe that’s lost it land, a species lost it’s place.

What will be in the future of this long-lost human race.

The future’s not in the present, our future’s in our past;

It dwells in the way things were – what we’re destroying fast.

We have no ears to listen, no thought to what we say;

but we’re so sure that we are right we see no other way.

Their voices call out daily; their offered hand is free

we simply need to reach out and accept what now must be.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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