We fall in love with people,
we take in their mistakes,
claiming the're not perfect

And when it comes down to earth,
we disrupt in anger
because of what we don't like,
claiming we do not deserve it

Poor of those lonely ancient artists,
sinked in their deppresion,
that did not see wonder
in the Earth's reaction
to the pain we caused her

The human kind, the one
who has comitted it's own genocide
and then has tried to justify their so called wars,
now gets mad to the retaliation
of the one we've caused
the most suffer

I, with this sensitivity for pain,
do see beauty
on the sea vomiting the man's junk,
and the earth having seizures because of it's wounds

You'll see,
beauty is not on the act itself
but on the realization
that our homeland is putting defense

It is a mother who, with tears of pain,
has to strike back it's own child

Who are we to claim anger,
to say that we're hungry
to say that we're cold,
after so many murder attempts
to the land that provided us
with the shield to these weapons

Should we not be sorry,
should we not try to mend our mistakes
for tempting the Mother's patience,
not fearing her power because of the love she professed us,
and disregarding the Father's gift?