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The smallest infinite cardinal number:


Extruded from a loving womb,

one is separate yet alive,

sweating at the fount of mother-milk

in an endless struggle

To survive;


One roams a hostile peopled world

to find whatever proof one can

of storied human kindliness

and love for other than

The Self;


Where food, shelter, and justice,

Like goods or private property

Are bought and sold through

lies and bartered




Among shards of broken nations,

One is damned by jealous gods,

for greed and sanguine sinning

in nature’s cruel race,

Or Winning.


Sometime  in old age or youth

One learns that every being,

every object, every truth,

is an expression of



Alive or dead, every thing,

waits or wanders here on earth

in hope—and fear–that time will bring

eternal death; or life;

or Eternal Birth.







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