ON THE MOVE
We are not deeply rooted trees.
We are not meant to age in place,
Sentinels for centuries.
Descendants of nomadic tribes,
Our feet were made for trekking.
Our path to the horizon lies.
And when of Planet Earth we tire
We’ll launch ourselves in outer space.
To wider vistas we’ll aspire.
Until that cure for wanderlust
Comes with its promise of peace:
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
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