You’re Going

When cockleburs attach themselves
to passers-by they can’t know where
they’re going
They only hear the echo of
their mother saying “You were born
to leave.

“You’re shaped for just one destiny;
that hook-nose and your thorny
cut the profile of an exile,
with a heart that’s made
to grieve.”

Now we’re clinging to a comet
on our way to God-knows-where
And our mother doesn’t miss us
and we can’t afford to care.
It may be we have a purpose
but it isn’t in our hands
whether we will come to rest on
fertile soil
or barren sands

The days were short, the nights were long,
the situation grim when they
that this dark and dormant comet
would pass close enough for some to
hitch a ride

The scientists and commissars
informed the undesirables:
“You’re going.
Do your farming on the surface,
build your taverns and your villages

Now were grinding rocks for soil
and we’re making air to breathe
and we’re burrowing and furrowing
our brows and can’t believe
That we’re hurling through the cosmos
and nobody understands
why our destiny is crafting
fertile soil
from barren sands