There is in man a great fountain.
It bubbles underground, underneath our lives,
until one day we feel it swirling there and
know we have to find the means to set it free.
If you can speak, fountain, reveal to us truths
too subtle for tongue to tell. Speak to us
of the source of things, the sweetness of waters
waiting to be willed into life. Tell us of a sky
full of balloons too full to be kept from flying free,
of wonderment suspended in silence.
We hear too much of parched lands from starched spines
decrying—denying us our birthright. Tell us what we
know resides beneath the crippling weight of our history.
Tell us of the beauty we can be, that we are, that we
will be after this desert dream has dreamed its last.
Then speak to us of what might be, if we dare—
of a new past, a new history one day,
a richer realm, deep down—