Some people are more of matter,
While some people matter the most;
With such a global affection,
Our feelings for the global are lost.
So which is the way to escape
Our own tribal code,
The one where it is openly said,
‘Take care of your own wounded’?
Could it be by a swift cut
Of that same natural code,
And loving all tribesmen, of all tribes, with overwhelming, oh overpowering love?
But
How do you mend the wounds,
Which trickling blood blinds the wounded,
Thus rejecting the patch
Or the path you present
As a replacement for they wrath?
How do you love hatred itself
Without being in return deeply wounded,
And your own wound’s trickling blood
Blinding you,
Binding you
To a blind path
Forged out of the others’ wrath?
A poisoned gift,
Globular,
This present.
