I'm Still Dreaming

Stories of the Earth

Stories are the blood of the people
Full of hope and heartache
And stories like people are forgotten as the ages pass. 
Decaying to the very dust we wipe away without a thought. 
The long-forgotten blood that has faded to the roaring rivers, 
And the mountains that grow and whither like humans born and aging. 
Making the smallest things around us,
The last legacies of those no longer remembered. 
Notice the small things,
Drops of water and the growth of plants
The single drop of your blood that is absorbed into the earth
Along with the blood of every fallen warrior
And the tears of those who mourned them.  
Thus a new story is born, 
A story that is yours alone. 
A story of peace and war,
Love and betrayal,
A story of your life and how you lived it. 
So that someday when your body decays and becomes dust on the wind
Or a strong mountain, or a clear stream. 
Your story will be remembered 
Not by the people that have long since forgotten,
But by the earth itself. 
Burdened forever by untold stories, 
Burdened by death and war and all that has befallen
Burdened forever by the legacies of the dead, 
And the hope of the living deems that burden worthwhile.