There is no king in their country
and there is no queen
and there are no princes vying for power,
inventing corruption.
Just as with us many children are born
and some will live and some will die and the country
will continue.
The weather will always be important.
And there will always be room for the weak, the violets
and the bloodroot.
When it is cold they will be given blankets of leaves.
When it is hot they will be given shade.
And not out of guilt, neither for a year-end deduction
but maybe for the cheer of their colors, their small flower faces.
They are not like us.
Some will perish to become houses or barns,
fences and bridges.
Others will endure past the counting of years.
And none will ever speak a single word of complaint,
as though language, after all,
did not work well enough, was only an early stage.
Neither do they ever have any questions to the gods —
which one is the real one, and what is the plan.
As though they have been told everything already,
and are content.
by Mary Oliver, from Blue Horses
