It is the ground which covers the lifeless children whose souls have gone on.
It is a river whose flow is that of only blood and tears.
It is a mountain whose highest point is less than that of a pigeon's flight.
It is an ocean whose deepest depth cannot bare the smallest fish.
It is a war that is fought by one and won by none.
It is the air that is breathed amongst toxic waste.
It is the pain felt by the tortured.
It is the question asked by the lonely.
It is the emotion felt by the depressed.
But it is much more and much less than all these things
For it can breathe without lungs and see without eyes.
It can love with no heart and hate with no regret.
It can hurt or heal.
It can demolish or build.
It can conquer or fail.
It is known only by me and me alone, for it is nothing but that. . .
It is me.
