How precious is this Earth on which we've grown
from proto-cells to sentient flesh and bone?
It nursed us through that billion year ascent,
our rock, our vehicle and our chaperone.
A blue asylum spinning through the black,
accommodating riders on its back
like barnacles upon some mighty whale,
supplying every needful thing we lack.
Earth's orbit makes the year, it spins our day,
its aura turns most deadly stuff away;
it once splashed molten rock to form the moon,
which softens night with sunlight's ricochet.
We bathe in Earth's sustaining atmosphere,
which cleans our breath, drops water bright and clear.
Far worlds we strain to spot cannot be reached;
in vast, cold space our only home is here.
This Earth which speeds us gently through the void
we'll whip and gouge until it is destroyed.
We'll overheat it, rip its insides out;
our gifts could be more usefully employed.