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I can hear the rumble of traffic
The clang and clatter of trams
While the soft, sweet scent of trees
Blows past in the a gentle summer wind

Sitting on the buttressed root
Of some ancient fig
Looking at the needles of the Cyprus
And wondering if they belong here

Our heritage of colonial conquest
Out tendency to squash nature
Trying to impose order onto our lives
Mindlessly droning, buying, dying

The collective memory of this place
The wisdom of the ancestors
Is buried under this manicured lawn
Hidden, waiting, patient and eternal

I often feel disconnected from our Mother
Gaia, her gifts and kindness
Are always there for the asking
But in this world of concrete and paper and money
I have forgotten the question.