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  • Lorraine Johnson

[1] Like a Mighty Tree, A Blade of Grass

When hatred rears its forbidding head,

do not become weary, my son

like a flower without water

like a river without a path.

Rather stand up like a mighty tree,

whose trunk—strong and tall, towers the earth.

whose leaves blow freely in the wind

and soul births seeds that feed the soil

whose shade removes flames that smother the land,

and whose roots connect—deeply, quietly—

listening and giving to distant calls.

Until one day, it can't—no more

its humble remains then earth new life,

reaching upwards, grasping the light

of a rising day—despite.

So stand up, my son—like a blade of grass

trampled by a thousand footprints bounces back to carry the earth

scorched by fire returns, ever more determined, richer green

—though burdened or burnt to ash by flames.


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