We too worship blades of grass
They are very soul and essence.
O captain, my captain,of our seas
And on a hard ground, on a terra.
We are full-grown poets in diapers
But undulations send us crashing.
We may hold on to nature for life.
A big organic mess is floating soul
And our gods are coloured kitsch.
We are our dried straws of souls.
We are helpless to wave in a wind.
(Remembering Whitman’s Blades of Grass)