The world is not us, but we are
Its and are it and part of it.
How is it we’re of it, in it,
And yet somehow estranged from it,
Possessed by a strange distinction
To be different than what we are?
The commonest answer is blame—
There must be something wrong with us,
With our ancestors, with our age,
With our current cultural norms,
Systems, habits, ways of thinking.
And then we fall to quarreling—
Whose habits? Whose ways of thinking?
Whose ancestors? Whose culture? Whose?
Usually, mostly yours. Sometimes,
A little bit, not so much, mine.
We’d strike closer to blame the world
For giving birth to us, but who
Among us is willing to cast
The first stone against Mother Earth,
And who believes in God enough
To call the real villain divine?
The world is not us. It made us.
What are we? We’re names of the world.