[Intro — very close, almost a confession] My Earth. I love you. That sounds ridiculously small for something this large. But there it is. [Verse 1] I do not understand how anyone can wake beneath your sky and never wonder what we leave behind. How anyone can take your rivers, your forests, your patient ground, and think that nothing answers back. Every scar we place upon you stays somewhere in the air, in the water, in the silence we pretend is not aware. And still we call it progress if the numbers move the right way. My Earth, I am embarrassed by us some days. [Pre-Chorus] You gave us stone. Rain. Breath. Distance. Seeds. And somehow we became convinced that everything was ours. [Chorus — wide, warm, pleading] My Earth, help me love you without turning love into a word. Help me speak to those who never seem to hear what can be heard. Help me show them: nothing happens only somewhere else. Every fire, every wound, every careless hand returns to all of us. My Earth, my love, tell me what to do. [Verse 2] I know you have survived things greater than our pride. Ice. Fire. Darkness. Continents moving side to side. Perhaps you do not need my rescue. Perhaps that thought is vain. Perhaps the one who needs salvation is the creature calling damage gain. Still, I cannot stand and watch us make a desert of belonging. I cannot call indifference wisdom. I cannot call the silence strong. [Pre-Chorus] So if I have one useful voice, let it not be used for blame. Teach me how to make a person feel the soil beneath their name. [Chorus] My Earth, help me love you without turning love into a word. Help me speak to those who never seem to hear what can be heard. Help me show them: nothing happens only somewhere else. Every fire, every wound, every careless hand returns to all of us. My Earth, my love, tell me what to do. [Bridge — nearly spoken, sparse percussion] And perhaps you answer: Do not save me. Remember me. Do not worship me. Belong. Do not speak for mountains if you cannot hear a neighbour. Do not mourn the forest and forget the human hand beside you. Do not ask how to protect me while living as though you are elsewhere. You are not on Earth. You are of Earth. That is the part you forgot. [Verse 3] Then let me start with that. Not guilt. Not fear. Not one more grand command. Let me learn the weight of water. Let me recognise the land. Let me leave some things unbroken. Let me question what I take. Let me teach without contempt. Let me listen before I wake another argument about who owns the future and the past. Perhaps love becomes believable only when it changes how we act. [Final Chorus — larger, luminous] My Earth, I love you. More than language knows to say. Not because you are eternal. Not because you’ll always stay the way I found you. That is precisely why I care. Love is not assuming what you love will always still be there. My Earth, help me remind them. Help me remind myself as well: we are not your owners. We are one brief living part of you. And if I cannot save the world, then let me at least begin by living as if everything I touch is something I live in. [Outro — almost whispered] My Earth. My love. You asked for nothing. And gave us everything. Perhaps that is where the lesson begins.
