where hope for man continues

There are gentle giants among us

whose height we do not see

who haul the great work of our civilization

and tend the gardens of our humanity

We hope to see them often

we long for ones to laude

but the gentle giants among us

their worth is in their love

their work is quiet tending

they do not long for thrones

but all their wish and yearning

is in the others height

And to grow a human is to

let yourself subside

so that we are not aware

when we’re tended, by and by

Who are these giants, that save us

from the chaos of our vice?

How do they rise? What made them be?

Where is the gentle giant in me?