Our hearts are framed in rude desire
To oppress, dominate, rule and acquire,
Yet we are not animals, but humans,
We are not trees, but humans.
We have hearts of blood, not stones,
That flows through our mortal bones,
That dilates with the heat of thy sun
That gyrates with the rhythm of thy turn.
We fall like leaves in winter,
But we rise like blossoms in summer,
We are amputated, but like snakes we crawl,
We are sequestered, but like water we draw ….
We know our sorrow, we know our pain,
But still we rise to thy blissful plain,
Many have died, and still dying that rise,
We, living with numbered breath, struggle to rise.
To thy blissful plain that’s far off our ball
That by rising we may tire and fall,
But still we rise, though we fall.
We rise from our mother's tired breast,
We rise from North, East, South and West,
We rise not for frankincense and myrrh,
We rise not for gold and silver,
But for truth, love, and beauty, we rise.
For truth, love and beauty, we rise.