This Earth We Live Is a Garden
A bird wakes up in the morn and flies away
To the garden-trees it heads
To check fruits that ripened at night
That its bone-beak may fruit harvest
This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak
A farmland where each one can harvest a thing
A politician scampers from bed and drives off
To the garden-parliament he heads
To check fruits speaker has made overnight
That his mouth-beak may joy harvest
A soldier skimps from trench on hearing whistle
To garden-parade he goes
To check what the commander hatched overnight
That his gun-beak may anything harvest
A poet tiptoes from bedroom with sleep in the eyes
To working desk he comes
To scribble what he dreamed during the wake-sleep
That his brain-beak may frame harvest
A priest leaves parish house before dawn and walks
To the garden-church he strolls
To check what his parishioners have in kind for him
That his faith-beak may daily need harvest
This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak
A farmland where each one can harvest a thing
A Bee buzzes away from its hive at cock crow
To garden-flowers it dive
To check what the god of love prepared overnight
That its tube-beak may juice harvest
This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak
A farmland where each one can harvest a thing
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