You must have a hope
that will let you stomp and sing
at any cold dawn.
You must not wait
to love the student who loves you
and would like to kill you.
You must read the story again
and again to the child
who receives you with a bovine stare.
You must get up
every day to punch in
not dreaming on transcendence，
not desiring new heroes or gods，
not looking the other way，
but looking for the other way
and ready to talk to everyone on the line.
You must not wait
for official approval
nor general consensus
to rage. You must
come again to kneel
in shiny， rock-strewn soil
not to pray， but to plant.
Yes， even now
as ice caps melt and black top
goes soft in the sun
you must prepare for the harvest.