The effort of the lands and hands that ever try to lay back the green are but a false hope. A half filled sand bag thrown into raging flood waters ever rising and quenching earths deep thirst to draw man beyond the madness of holding her.
Translating the tides to fit a neat bit for a short time only is as selfish a task as drinking the whole cold creek dry.
For a time. And the old world had no blinds or walls or words.
When the green was the garden of all and creatures had no walls to wait for the slash and burn.
Old worn hands and faces, generations of walls, wailing streets, sad windows and fences will never hold back the green walk of words
For there are no walls to hold back the green.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe