You must have a hope

    that will let you stomp¹ 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 bovine² 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 consensus³

    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.