Through the fields of grass we plow,
Through the thickest tree,
Through our progress we will know,
Our projects will succeed.

The roads they stretch so near and far,
Until there are no trees,
And who's to say what projects are?
Besides our rare disease.

We have blessed intelligence,
God made us supreme,
Do animals suffer, subvert, invent?
Or the flower, the dirt the stream?

No, with the gull the warm air flows,
And with the fish the stream,
They seek not to change their house,
To fit imagined needs.

We hold here a perilous tenure,
And satisfy our needs,
The law reverse, success is failure,
Our life and times recede.

The Seventh Circle Website