City funk and country folk, rancher duds and ocean dudes,
Working classes, country clubs, thrasher bikes and Memphis blues;
Round about this tiny world, we spin upon most any word –
Patterns here and patterns there, empty patterns in the air –
We spin to silent minuets, hoping once that we’ll be heard.
Will we see that sound alone, like words from foreign languages,
Has never focused our poor sight on why our planet languishes?
— Rick Hill, 1992