The land we owned was a dying land.
Behind us, there was a towering wall,
shutting us off from that green land
where once we lived, before the fall.
Angels guarded that towering wall
with fiery swords, far-piercing eyes,
and the wall was thick and very tall
and up it towered beyond the skies.
But we had knowledge, we were wise.
We had a way of changing things.
One finger's touch--up went the wall--
we blew those winged men sky-high--
we taught God's angels how to fly--
then entered into that promised land
which we knew once as paradise,
that dear home land from which we came.
But the trees were trees of living flame,
the lakes brown lakes of burning oil,
hills bare stumps of black-charred stone,
there were no birds, no animals.
And now we live here, bound and free,
possessed of our latest, farthest dreams--
and the land we own is a dying land,
and behind us rises a towering wall.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie