This land is not a land
It’s an idea.
Sometimes we fear that idea,
We spit on it, we trample it.
Then we pick it up, we dust it off, we pat it on the head.
Ideas don’t mind.
People do.
Today we celebrate our land,
Tomorrow we go back to the fear, the spitting, the trampling,
Or even worse, the indifference.
But there’s a problem.
People die; land dies; countries die;
But ideas do not have to die.
But ideas must grow, or they will die.
Greatness is momentary in the flesh,
But in an idea endlessly growing,
It is immortal.
So when we celebrate our land today,
We are only picking our idea up, dusting it off, patting it on the head.
We need to do more.
We need to overcome our fear of our idea,
And right its wrongs,
And help it grow new lofty mansions,
As the seasons roll.
Else tomorrow, we may find that our idea is dead.
And when our idea is dead,
Our country might as well be dead.
For why should anyone care any more about our country or us
Than any others?
We will no longer have an idea
To protect us people somewhat
From the fear, the spitting, the trampling.
This land is not our land.
Because it’s an idea.
People don’t own ideas;
Parents don’t own children.
And so, today,
Ask not what your country can do for you.
Ask what you can do for your idea.
