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Extruded from a gentle womb,

we become separate, alive,

sweat at the fount of mother-milk

in a struggle

                              to Survive;

We search the world we share

for human lovingkindness

with hope that proof is there

of love for other than

                 the Self;

If food, shelter, and justice,

are only private property,

sought and bought with things,

or lies and bartered

Then there’s no joy in birth

or death of civilizations

or the baubles, and troubles

and orphaned hopes

                             of Nations.

Damned by a million jealous gods,

for running nature’s cruel race

with ruthless, shameless sinning

and allegedly,

                            for Winning,

Both withered age and velvet youth

live only through one another;

and every being, object, truth,

is an iterated

Alive or dead, everything,

waits or wanders here on earth

in fear and hope that time will bring

eternal death; or life; or




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