and the farmer’s legs.
it is not the hoe,
but the farmer’s hands,
and the farmer’s heart,
working and committed!
it is not the political system,
but the moral fiber beneath.
not the moral fiber of judgement,
but that guided by human compassion.
for the back and the legs,
and the hands and the heart,
are the working cogs of freedom.
anything done without love will fail!
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guns, createdby man’s hands.war, createdin the image of man.even the animals know!whose image do we worship now?
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humanity, cursed by apathy,acts of murder in God’s name.national pride, guess what they lied,putting money in the bank.bombs falling, terror crawling,putting gas in the tanks.and the world comes crashing down.in too deep, the fearful drown.stand up and be, or just sit down.what goes around comes around.
does rain fall,
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would you then love me?
i roam the earth with passion.i have no home.i carry the voicesof hunger and need.are you then the rain?falling on the good and the evil.giving without asking,touching deep without guilt.dialogue, and encounter,we rock the darkness.leaving the trace of our madness,in branches blown asunder…and small puddles of water,in the cracks in the pavement…that children will wake…
even buddhas die…
without a sense of loss,without asking for tears.but they do feel mourning,yours…they do feel a sense of loss,yours….and they shed tears,that are yours….and so reborn by choice,to help carry your bucket,and walk beside you…for buddhas help buddhastill all are free!