Mexico City

Are we continuing to write our own mythology?
I wonder if all the poets have become too busy
With the work that pays us to be able
To not beg on the street with a child in our arms
To obsess about internet access and dialing rates,
Air time and hang time, bank rates and show dates
Living outside the warming glow of nature
In cities of fear and prison-like minds

Going so long without communing with the divine
Prayers rushed, gratitude sincere, but without the quiet
To hear the messages from the trees
And the comments from the earth
To help us translate the story of man
So that another generation has it to pass on
In their own words, the same words, the same symbols
So that the truth doesn