Like their ancestors, they don't mark their turf with crops.
Footprints aren't enough,
nothing on their way awaits their return.
Every generation use to know,
the gift of a passage goes without saying.

It's a fierce adaptation,
as earth is no longer of sane decorum.
All grooming is changed
Brown is closing in,
Cultivators are closing up 
paths,
tough grabs,

in our time, routes are filled with marks.
Greener pastures like fine bespoken fabrics a tailor still hangs.
Trespassing, violence, and vandalism prevails. 
This they can control,
not the shrinking of green
nor the encroaching of brown.

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