Our mother,
Who art on Earth.
They shall be done on your spherical corse,
What you permit to be done.
...
To The Earth.
Our mother,
Who art on Earth.
They shall be done on your spherical corse,
What you permit to be done.
Welcoming silent frames, pale and cold.
To a home they've been striding over.
With the ignorance of what's good or bad.
The warmth of your embrace,
Your warm brown skin
And your heart on fire.
What is the point of it all?