It’s an illusion that you could hurt each me.

It’s an illusion that you could hurt me,

I’m much too strong and old;

My bones are flowing lava,

that had one day run too cold;

My eyes are looming mountains,

and my shoulders are the cliffs;

Where tender hearts like yours may fall,

to dangle at my hips;

Now you, young river, saw my chest,

with the gaping hole inside;

So stoically you flowed to fill it,

fearing with it, I may die;

But it was an illusion I was crying,

I was merely breathing deep;

So you filled my eyes with tears,

So you could “heal” me while I sleep;

But you found I wasn’t sad,

nor was I in any pain;

So down my narrow valleys,

You let your poisoned water drain;

You thought that you could hurt me,

You believed that rivers could cut rock;

That you could turn my once strong mountains,

into finely grated chalk;

And because you may seep through me,

you might think you’ve won this war;

But I’m the earth and you’re the ocean,

And all know you’ll never reach the core.