Still · Wide

Hatred

It is pure hatred
that makes the trees wither,
more than lack of rain.
The flowers fail to bloom
in springtime
because we have learned
to look at each other
through judgment’s eyes.

It is pure hatred
that makes the grass grow
upside down.
Nothing can destroy
the mystery of life,
but we have a hard time
encountering it in
bits and bytes.

We have been outnumbered
by thistle and mice.

Tell me everything
and I’ll tell you a lie,
tell me everything
and I’ll cover the light
for everyone.

It is pure hatred,
it is pure hatred,
that stops the Earth
from spinning,
the time of good-bye.

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