Un-Hearing

Falling leaves trace ancestral tracks in empty air and their whispers echo secrets, ancient; lost to most mortal ears, suppressed, Stifled as techno-shrieks from MP3 quicksand, cell-mania and industry drums drive them into near oblivion. Soot-browned, crispy hairs fall upon Earths’ shoulders; dancing on Fall winds, singing messages loud and clear; we must rest now, hibernate in her womb. “Child, when ice-time comes, her steely cold grip will crush us in our slumber. Gaia, like the phoenix reborn, renews in sleep her life power; pours us into leaf-molds. Once again; death is some mortal illusion, but most never hear our whispers.” Listen with your soul, ears never truly hear these whispers. Selective hearing is mankind’s’ undoing.