.
Beneath the stars in endless grace,
The Earth still turns through time and space.
Her rivers hum, her forests sigh,
While humankind keeps asking *why*.
Once love and seed were nature’s thread,
A mystery in each child’s head.
But now we reach through skin and bone,
To make new life from flesh alone.
Oh Mother Nature, can you hear?
The children born from human fear.
The code is cracked, the garden burns,
And still the restless spirit yearns.
Is this creation, is this art?
Or man unmaking his own heart?
With DNA Taken from skin,
Two folk can form a babe within.
Two hearts may dream, two souls may plead,
To shape the life they long to seed.
.
But mother nature whispers, soft yet stern,
“My deepest laws you’ve yet to learn.”
The lab lights glow through sleepless nights,
The future hums in coded bytes.
“Behold,” they cry, “what we can mold!”
But wisdom’s worth is more than gold.
Oh Mother Nature, can you hear?
The children born from human fear.
The stars look down, the angels sigh,
Was this the plan, or just the lie?
Has heaven wept, has love grown cold?
For dreams that pride has bought and sold.
The oceans cry, the tempests moan,
The garden grieves — she’s not alone.
Does Satan smile through circuits bright,
Or is it man who lost the light?
Oh Mother Nature, hold us near,
Forgive the hands that brought you tears.
For if we love with care, not pain,
The stars may learn to shine again.
Beneath the stars, the Earth still turns,
The heart still breaks, the spirit yearns.
And somewhere deep, beyond our plan,
God waits in silence — watching man.
Copyright © Ven Bunce 2025
The War on Mother Nature’s DNA:
When Creation Forgets Its Source….
Beneath the glittering veil of modern science, a quiet war unfolds — not one of bombs or borders, but of boundaries. In laboratories illuminated by sterile light, humankind now reaches into the sacred code of life itself, determined to reshape creation in its own image. The poem “The War on Mother Nature’s DNA” stands as a haunting meditation on this moment — when the power to make life tempts us to forget the mystery of being alive.
The poem opens under a cosmic sky, reminding us that Earth still turns “through time and space,” a living sanctuary of grace and rhythm. Yet this continuity contrasts sharply with humanity’s growing dissonance. Nature hums and sighs, but we, her children, no longer listen. Our questions — why, how, what if — are no longer whispered in wonder but demanded in control.
Once, creation was a collaboration. “Love and seed were nature’s thread,” Evoking an era when procreation was both mystery and gift. But science has cracked the code. DNA, the sacred script of existence, is now editable, transferable, and increasingly detached from its organic roots. Through genetic engineering and artificial wombs, we no longer wait upon the rhythms of nature; we write over them.
This tension pulses through the poem’s recurring cry: “Oh Mother Nature, can you hear?” It is the voice of conscience — both awed and alarmed — as we celebrate technological triumphs that blur the line between creation and manufacture. The “children born from human fear” are not villains of this story, but symbols of an age anxious to transcend its limits. Our pursuit of perfection may come not from arrogance alone, but from a deep unease with imperfection itself.
Yet the poem refuses to condemn science. Instead, it warns of imbalance. The lab lights may “glow through sleepless nights,” but wisdom’s worth, reminds us, “is more than gold.” Progress without reverence risks hollowing the human heart. When we treat life as data, we risk forgetting its divinity.
The closing stanzas strike a tone of repentance and hope. Nature’s voice, soft yet stern, calls us back to humility: “My deepest laws you’ve yet to learn.” The plea is not for rejection of science, but for reunion — a return to balance between knowledge and wisdom, power and compassion. For even as “the garden grieves” and “the oceans cry,” the poem envisions redemption: that “if we love with care, not pain, the stars may learn to shine again.”
In the end, “The War on Mother Nature’s DNA” is less a protest than a prayer — a reminder that the soul of science must remain human. The stars still turn. God still waits. The question that lingers is whether we will look up in wonder again, or continue to rewrite the heavens in our own image.
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