Our Home

Or they landed nor would they hand,
Or the trees broke nor they wept loud,
Or the stars blink, yet they fade not,
Nor would rain weep; it merged with lot,
Born was he in low, how raised he got,
Then the seas rose, how swept their state!
Or are we blind; our eyes could beget not.
How blessed is he, nor hath seen nor heard
Yet continues to believe, such art;
Or did they leave, for some habit known?
Nor would they cry, they used all seas,
And they dried, and he died there,
When the moon wept, it began to fall,
Or the mountains cried, yet no ice broke,
Then they churned snow till ice remade,
As all thoughts lay, sun rose morrow,
And then Earth became our star yond,
Then the star became part of the black,
We saw black, and we realised not its light,
Then we knew that we were canvas whole,
As all things landed, His brush trembled stroke,
We have no hand, nor would they hand,
Or are these trees ye call brushes our vice,
Then that drop we laid, comes our home.