Though I am an ancient tree
Standing alone in the glen,
A precious writing desk I'd be
To feel fine words of thinking men.
I'd feel the press of pointed pen
That would express the best of men
Whose thoughts were firm for liberty.
I stand; I wait; oh axe, swing free!
Though I am an ancient deposit of oil
Lying in peace far under the sea,
I yearn for a man's remarkable toil---
His determination to set me free
To be his servant fueling cars,
And lifting him---and lifting me!---to Mars!
Though I am a pure and pristine planet,
The stride of man---I do not ban it;
For purity's but a hollow name
That fears the bold of human fame.
So come, O Man, dig deep and full;
Discover me a useful tool!
Copyright © Brian Faulkner | Year Posted 2008
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