The grass points skyward,
Spear-like, upright and with true direction -
It pierces the ethers,
Slices the winds and sweetens the air,
With its green perspiration.
The damp earth it leaps from,
Faces the starry mass
Which congregates in holy gatherings,
Vast and beyond the face of this Earth.
Watchful Mother of all,
Hold us here,
Hold us dear ...
As our thoughts pierce the Cosmos,
Upright and with true direction.
And from this beloved ground,
From our beginnings into the now,
Be there good soil,
Nourishing and firm.