The little ball of hatred rolled and rolled,
and with each turn, it grew more bold,
until it slipped, lost all control,
and down the cliff it fell.
It broke apart upon the ground,
its shattered pieces all around,
and from each crack a poison wound
spread through the earth like hell.
It stained the soil, the skies grew dim,
the animals grew sick and thin,
the world itself wore sorrow’s skin,
and silence slowly fell.
A thousand years, the rivers cried,
and washed the poison far and wide,
then millions more the earth survived
beneath time’s patient spell.
And then one day, so small, so slight,
beneath the sun, in quiet light,
a flower rose, so soft, so bright—
a story time would tell.
How much was lost, how much was owed,
for such a small and foolish load—
a ball of hate that only rolled…
and never knew to dwell.
