We love ourselves too often and need reach out much more often. It is a social responsibility and it effects the environment also.
What war does, is not so modern now, a new thing, something else then a gun, the bloody weapons, and so on and so on, has lost the imagination, as gold turns to silver and dust to ashes upon the valley, it settles where people once thrived, and spoke with songs, and stars in their eyes. I longed to walk on the trail into the hidden village and find a mystery leading me to a wild woman dressed in feather deep in thought, to catch her attention, then weep for no reason, happens sometimes when we realize more is there then assumed, and she smiles.
She is getting cold in the Artic, so cold in fact she is hot, she shines near the ice and I have no part to play, but penguins do with a gaggle, they slide down the crystal hill, passion dances with snow flurries, and this nearly ends the story, as the heating heart of beating poetry melts the glaciers into fine tuned ooze.
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