What shall we do with the time given us? Did the hour of hurt so disable us that the days and years of our lives lie slain at the feet of rebellious men? Do the violent own this world and its trees only bloom with bitter fruit? Can the yards built for children only be the chance for harm where swings creak in dark rhythms and the childish blossoms of dreams grow unviewed because all the vases are shattered? Tell me my bruised eye can look on man and see some hope.
I watch the dying and see only resignation to the perverted state of their lives.