The Earth We Borrow

The Earth spins gently through the dark, beneath a sky of scattered light,

Where stars like ancient watchful eyes keep vigil through the silent night.

Her oceans breathe in steady waves, her winds move slow through grove and glen,

She cradles every seed and soul, and waits to feel our touch again.

Her mountains rise with quiet pride, their spines like spires to heaven’s gate,

Their peaks have seen what kings forget, their silence thick with time and fate.

The rivers cut through fields and stone, with patient hands and endless grace,

They mirror skies and carry tales of every soul who found their place.

She paints her dawn in amber gold, her dusk in shades of softest flame,

Each season turns with purpose set, and yet, she never seeks acclaim.

The flowers bloom, the forests stretch, the bees still hum their sacred tunes,

And under canopies of green, the fox still dances with the moon.

We live upon her borrowed ground, we drink her rain, we breathe her air,

And yet we bruise her skin with haste, too busy now to truly care.

We strip her forests, choke her seas, and scrape the sky with smoke and steel,

We count her worth in profit lines, and take far more than what we feel.

Our cities glow while stars grow dim, our silence drowns beneath the noise,

We build with pride, but fail to see the cost behind our clever toys.

The plastic piles, the oceans warm, the poles recede with each new year,

And all the while, she pleads with us—but few are left who choose to hear.

She does not shout, she does not strike, she only trembles now and then,

With storms that churn and fires that rage, with warnings written in the wind.

But still she offers all she has—her beauty, balance, breath, and stone,

As if she hopes we’ll learn at last this world was never ours alone.

We are not masters of her grace, nor owners of her hills and tide,

We are but guests for fleeting years, who walk her fields in borrowed stride.

And one day soon, if we forget, if greed should guide our final page,

The Earth may simply turn away—reset the stage, remove the stage.

But there is hope, still soft, still near, if we will only choose to act,

To listen more, to take but less, to give the balance slowly back.

To teach our children Earth’s true name, not wealth or war or screens or gold,

But life, connection, sacred space—a story waiting to be told.

Let trees be planted where they fell, let rivers run their rightful way,

Let cities bloom with rooftop greens, and plastic fade to yesterday.

Let gardens grow where buildings cracked, let bees return to fragrant fields,

Let kindness lead, and voices rise, in songs that healing gently yields.

Let wonder take the place of speed, and gratitude replace the chase,

Let every footstep find its ground with reverence for this sacred place.

The Earth gives all without request—her sunsets, soil, and skyward dome,

Not as a gift we’re owed in full, but as a whisper: “This is home.”

So let us live as stewards true, not thieves in haste, not kings in greed,

But as the hands who tend the roots, and sow the love the future needs.

And may the children yet unborn look back and say with grateful eyes,

“They left the Earth a song to sing, not just a place where beauty dies.”

For Earth is not a thing to own, nor trophy won, nor prize to claim,

She is the heart that pulses life, the soul that no one’s learned to tame.

She is the breath beneath our breath, the calm behind the stormy swell—

The Earth we borrow for a time, the only home we know so well.