Some die for many to live,
Few live for many to die.
They too are the earth; they live
and rise 'bove storm, lest they'll die.
What others see is blind to others,
Life others feel, to others, its hell.
Father is the air that blows cool weathers,
Another's is a mild monster from hell.
The gentle breeze we love is death to some,
We wake as dusts and we play not with dust.
Life dies when we sleep, and wakes dead-life some;
We're pencils, seen feebly strong. But! We're dusts.
Few live for many to die,
Some die for many to live.
Some pass away but fail to die;
They're walking corpse, wanting to live.
Lest dusts fail to know self like a source-less
stream. We're tick tacks that ticks, that knows not night from day.
Are we good as Adam, blessed with sweetness?
Good evils smell on us but we live day by day.
"words from the innocent mind"