I heard elders say we made small holes,Not to take, but to ask the earth if she was whole.Now men on screens talk of boats and borders,As if a hull and a compass make rightful orders.“If a sailor came long ago,” they say,“Then we were here too, in our own way.”But the trees don’t keep records, they only grow,And the river moves on — not caring who claims the flow.So I watched a six-year-old shrug at the noise,Saying wisdom isn’t owned by flags or toys,And maybe the land will laugh someday,At boats and borders blown away.