Listen, children,

Gather close and hear my sorrow,

For I am Earth, the ancient mother,

Older than the rivers, wiser than the trees,

Yet torn apart by the greed of men.

Once, I wore a robe of green,

A cloth woven with forests thick,

Embroidered with rivers that laughed in the sun.

But now, my robe is tattered, my laughter is dust.

The miners came with their iron teeth,

Digging, cutting, piercing my belly,

Their hands do not bless the soil,

Their feet do not dance in gratitude.

No! Their hands are like vultures’ claws,

Their feet are heavy like a war drum’s beat.

They search for gold, but leave me in ruin,

They take my oil, but give me no water.

The veins that fed my children,

Now run dry like an old man’s throat.

Oh, my children, can you not see?

The trees whisper my pain to the wind,

The rivers carry my tears to the ocean,

Yet the miners do not hear,

Blinded by silver, deafened by profit.

Did the elders not warn you?

Did they not say, “A man who eats all the yams today

Will go hungry when the moon returns”?

But these men, these strangers with hollow hearts,

They do not wait for the moon,

They do not fear tomorrow.

One day, I will rise,

Like the thunder that chases away hunters,

Like the flood that swallows the careless canoe.

The gold they worship will turn to sand,

The oil they drink will choke their throats,

And they will call out to me—

But I will not answer.

Listen, children,

Tell this tale to those who will listen,

For I am Earth, the giver of life,

But even a mother can grow weary of ungrateful sons.