When I was young I so believed

the fairytales the matrons weaved.

Tales of woe and crimes of plight,

ended with love and might as right.

 

I thought the earth belonged to all,

for each and every one to call.

My land, my world, my place to be,

and there, in the tales, lies the veracity.

 

Stories created in the beginning of times,

yet still told as nursery rhymes.

To children across the world so wide,

a world rife with such divide.

 

And over time what have we learned,

that hope, that right, those tales churned?

Or, have we brought those tales to life,

made them true, through our earthly strife.

 

Magic beans

Cups of gold

Slaying giants

Princes bold.

 

Elixirs brewed for all our cares,

Gold-lined signals in our airs.

Hulking ogres fill our screens

and fill our minds with horror scenes.

All the while princes spare

Smiling in their selfish lair.

 

For what I’ve learned of tales of hope

is that they’re shared to help us cope.

In darkest hour we recite,

while clasping hands in dawning light,

to get us through our manmade plight.

 

The Earth is not for you,

Or me,

The Earth belongs to few, you see.

 

The coffee this morning looks deep in its tiny tea cup.