Who are the many?

Those who suffer

Day and night,

Not giving up the fight

For survival.

On the other side,

Those who feast all life

For the many enduring.

Injustice is a way of living,

Born from pain.

There is no gain.

It’s all in vain.

Peace ceased to be

But an ideal

Laying on the bottom

Of a tiny box, called humanity.

My cry seems my own

Because so many are thrown

Against each other,

Hater not lover.

Cultivating is something

I’ve learned,

In love and peace,

From now on.

You can say

It’s our own.


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