Classic Poem

Those on the top say they know you, Earth — they are liars.
You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.
Only the son knows his father.
We are alike — sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.
I drink and shout with my brothers when above you —
Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.
But you avidly grip us again — we pay for the little noise of life we steal.