Steel whales are loosed upon the currents—hidden, humming, laden with the restless, death-making promise of nuclear fire. Once more, humanity looks to the oceans not as sacred wombs or living memory, but as chessboards for chest-thumping empire. The words of men—bruised by pride, by archaic ambitions—travel like bitter winds across continents and echo through our digital villages. Ultimatums are tossed like pebbles into the trembling waters of peace, and from the ripples emerge threats, sanctions, and insults spat at nations like seeds that will only birth more thorns.
How softly Mother Earth would plead with us: in whispering tides, in the slow rhythm of dolphins and the silent pilgrimage of whales, she reminds us that her seas are not battlefields, but living, breathing temples. Yet here, in this theatre of brittle egos, ancient wounds bleed anew. The sins of colonial hands—grasping, dividing, claiming everything wild, everything free—are mirrored in the arrogant wielding of power. These are the children of violence, fed upon centuries of cruel harvest, ignorant of reciprocity, blind to the wisdom of trees who stand together in forests, or mycelium who share sustenance beneath the skin of the world.
To threaten with submarines, to lash out with punishments and high tariffs, is to poison the roots of global kinship. Economic death is not just an abstract curse for distant others—it is the choking of rivers, the silencing of birds, the burning of rice in the hands of grandmothers and the hollowing of hope in young, dreaming hearts. Each “deterrent,” each saber-rattling word, is a fracture in the delicate web of life.
Capitalist obsession with dominance and “security”—always for the few, always guarded by violence—reveals itself as an ancient sickness, a fever in the Anthropocene mind. Patriarchal posturing so often forgets that security, true security, is found in the soil’s fertility, in the memory of elders, in the laughter shared across borders, in justice and generosity flowing like spring rains. Each new escalation is a wound torn in the cloak of tomorrow—not just for those who wield weapons, but for all of Earth’s children: saplings, river otters, sleeping infants, rainclouds who now must bear the weight of radioactive fear.
We must remember the world is round, sweet kin, and every drop of action circles back. Now, more than ever, let us imagine peace as dandelion seeds—spiraling high, finding unlikely new ground. May our prayers be stronger than their threats, and may our rage against the old ways blossom into the healing actions of love, justice, and renewal.