Imagine an angel from distant space, an alien being who in being alive
Surpassed all we thought we would see in this life,
She placed hands on my shoulder, and stepped to the mic,
Seemingly composed entirely of white light, and her eyes
Turned their shine to outside… she looked at the earth,
And she asked me, what's it like… so I began to describe…

This is planet earth, population seven billion,
Most of those are judged by their material worth,
Here on this world, those billions of stories combine
And we care about a small few of those at a time,
Our telescopes poke distant galaxies, (44)
But of our own realities we're consistently blind.

Where I live, we will cry at the depiction of fictional lives
Our emotions twisting inside, fixing our eyes on scenes
Of soap drama sadness. The real madness is that real life
Does not draw forth the same reaction, we watch mass disasters,
With abstract detachment, and change channel with fast distraction,

As long as it does it not happen to me.
I always walk by kids younger than me on the side of the street,
I would spare change, but my feet need new nikes you see?
These aren't quite white enough, see this cycle repeats
And will continue when my recitals complete
What can I do?

But our planet, our planet is beautiful (1.21)
It's oceans swirl beneath the suns embers that glow
And December brings snow that ices mountain peaks,
And drifts over green trees, fountains leap from springs
To quench our thirst, but our thirst won't be quenched,
And those trees from earth we wrench,
Each generation more displaced from their roots
The fruits of our work astound,
We build to the skies, and yet we never look down 1.43
We strive to fly high, and forget to keep feet on the ground
Lost souls…

Some of us believe in a God,
I'm not sure why, but he is supposed to be a man,
And if we are created in his image,
I imagine that he has a distaste for mirrors,
For we do ugly things, considering we are obsessed with appearance,

In my country, the banks are built with blood money,
Their bricks mixed the mortar of memory,
The cement of sweat and tears, formed from years of the slave trade
Oh yes, when it comes to war, we humans make the A-Grade,
And nothing spurs inventions, like the thrill of more hurtful weapons,
We can kill you in a hundred ways, but contract aids,
And you will not be saved, even less so depending on how much your paid

Where I live the politicians increase their wage,
But will refuse to admit in this day and age, that many here live without food,
The poverty line will not wrinkle their foreheads.

Yes, I live amongst this, and I accept it as given,
I have never been driven to question this status quo,
I save that for the Mother Theresa's, The Nelson Mandela's
And the heroes closer to home, like my own mum
Whose marrow draws arrows in my bones, pointing my limbs in the right direction,
I walk sometimes, under nights protection, and sit by the sea,
Watching the rolling waves stir gently at my feet.

I think of my Grandfather's and of all those who have taken their leave,
The fabric we have weaved on the tapestry of the pasts simple history,
We make marks, even if they are never monumental,
Humanity is given its name, by the solemn, gentle acts of kindness
I am rarely brave enough to show. The fact is, that we come and go

And our lives are a flash in the pan, a splash on the sand
That will fade, but for a moment, it is an ocean in its own way
We humans can love with a passion, and it drives us to ecstasy and despair
To curses and prayers, to life, and to death.

We still refuse to accept, that one life is no more important than the next,
We judge on race, on sexuality, on sex, we judge on whatever difference
We perceive to be left. I have never felt disease breath on my neck,
For me it is no concern, my concern is what can I earn,
On the best ways my small income can burn, I do not use it to light candles of
I do not place my hands at right angles and pray,
Some of the worst of us on earth, use God to get their way

But still I have kept my faith, simple things like the exact hue
That forms the colour blue, in the eyes of someone I love
Reminds me there's something to hold, something to live for and die for,
At twenty two, I am young and I stand before a minefield of mistakes
Each one, I will at some point activate,
What makes a human is picking up the pieces, not just scripting masterpieces,
This is not art. This is heart.
This is the conversion of converging rivers in my nervous system
These are not pearls of wisdom, you have to live on your own terms,
You will do fine if you learn from the wrong turns,

Surviving on this earth will eventually kill you,
But do it right, and you can be living, and it will thrill you,
It will fill you with excitement, I compare it to the first night spent
With one who shows you what life meant, and its meaning is not
Explained by philosophers, by astronomers, by the psychologists,

Nor poets who are destined to remained anonymous.
Truth is, forget the meaning, turn your days to dreaming
And your dreaming to days.

For this is our world,
We can do with an angel that stays