Were I but yet the pitch-dark crow that files
Or yet a plain drab beetle on the ground,
A golden eagle that ascends on high
Or Yeti crab upon an ocean mound;
Here still the blood of life would course my veins
Imbuing so an essence old as time
Thus where on high or yet below the main
I share a bond that no soul can decry.
A life is still a life though great or small
And though our bonds be knit by narrow strands;
Whether we run, fly, slither, swim or crawl,
All grace born of four letters in the sand.
So if these brethren vanish, n’er to see —
How ever lonely would our planet be.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.