Young child,
Drifting like cotton in the spring,
Bound to the fate that history sings.
You have only known the world as foreordained to be made manifest,
Taught that conquest was noble, that expansion was blessed.
The mother—
Life-bringer, the dreamer’s embrace,
Holding light of the moon and sun’s warm grace.
The father—
Armored shell, standing tall,
Frankincense and myrrh in the air like a call.
Three forces—mother, father, child,
Nuclear and fusion, yet something feels wild.
The math is there, the laws are clear,
But why does the sum feel insincere?
Why does this reaction stall,
Fail to power the land of liberty’s call?
The perfect formula was inked,
Numbers aligned, the missing link.
But maybe—just maybe—
Laws we follow were never meant to be stable.
And if Hamurabi taught us right,
Some laws were written not in truth, but in might.
Some systems break not from decay,
But because they were flawed from their very first day.
Time of yesterday, time of tomorrow,
Time of now—echoed in sorrow.
They whisper the truth we seek,
Not in the strong, but the voices weak.
It is not what a single hand decrees,
It is the infinite energy that frees.
It is us.
The amalgamation of soul and breath,
Who rise beyond what history left.
Not division, but connection,
Not oppression, but resurrection.
Only through an infinite bond
Can nuclear fusion spark beyond.
Only through unity, bright and strong,
Can energy rise, where it belongs.
The output? A force so vast,
Fusing human bonds to last.
Because we—
We are not just fleeting light,
We are the soul of day and night.
We are the spirit, burning bright,
The force that makes wrong into right.
We are the child.
She is the mother.
He is the father.
Carrying the cotton,
Releasing it high,
To the moon and the sun,
Let it drift, let it fly.
Guiding it toward the frankincense tree,
Where it lands, where it heals,
Where it calls to the free.
America,
Your infinite energy lives on in me.