Brown soil is cool and moist in my hands,
Reminding me of who I am,
And of what came before me.
Planting, replenishing, giving back,
Restores me to myself.
This land belongs to everyone,
Though men plant flags to claim dominion.
There is time to green the land now,
To keep it free from blood,
To grow on it. To grow ourselves.
We can either be planters of new shoots,
Beneath a benevolent sun,
Or we can uproot it all,
Tear it asunder,
Yielding sparse, bitter and tainted harvest.
This land welcomes us,
Let us do the same for ourselves,