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Octav Bibere

A society of consumption produces a disposable man!

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Because I am A Special Man

I am a specal man
Addressed as a gentleman
My posture is calm
Inside me is ruggedness
Despite the daily storms
My mind is fixed on success
'cos I am a special man

My liver has furnace of determination
Communities tagged me the head
Much is expected from me
My loads are too heavy
I am to provide for the family
I am to fight for the society
'cos I am a special man

I am special man
I am a warrior
I am a fighter
I fight for peace
I war against the enemies
I laid down my blood for peace
'cos I am a special man

I am a special man indeed
Not all men are special
I am special to the woman
A real mascho man
My absence makes woman solitary
My presence brings candour to her
Her joy is complete in me
So, I labour daily to make her joyful
I am a priceless prince

I am special indeed
Out of my loins come the kids
I am a giuding light to future leaders
A role model par excellence
The kids like to be like me
The children wants to have my coarse voice
In my eyes they see determination
In my posture they see strength
Courage exudes from me to them
With me they can face tomorrow
'cos I am a special man

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Claude Levi-Strauss

Just as the individual is not alone in the group, nor any one in society alone among the others, so man is not alone in the universe.

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All societies on the verge of death are masculine. A society can survive with only one man; no society will survive a shortage of women.

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A Million More

12 years of education and this is what I'm worth.
Back breaking labor I endure every day to fill my purse.
A subordinate life not one I choose a hatred of the man that I answer too.
Disposable man that's all I am and there's a million more to fill the shoes I stand.
The American dream skipped me it seems pointless by design a story with no theme.
There's a million more just like me disenchanted unenthused.
Overlooked in the mindless shuffle to make way for something new.
I'm a face without a name I'm a man without a place
after a lifetime of my loyalty on a whim to be replaced.
27, Ivy League CEO with his job bought and paid for by his family's tow.
Bred to believe that he's above the rest
while the sweat from my back is clearing his checks.
A factory floor filled with human machines for minimum wage we sacrifice our dreams.
And while supply of this labor exceeds demand
the room for this injustice will only expand.
Disregard my sacrifice push me out in the cold.
Move my job south of the border while my family pays the toll.
I have silenced my contempt I've restrained my bitter rage
and now I choke to death on the words I didn't say.

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You Feel That The World Is Against You

You feel that the World is against you and nothing for you is going right
And you struggle just for to make ends meet and life is a hard uphill fight
But than you there are far worse off people though you do not see things that way
In Rwanda a Country in Africa teenagers to support their families work today.

Their parents by war taken from them and the eldest members of the family
Must work for to support their younger siblings they only know of poverty
In our society you may seem a poor man but poverty one can compare
And in the eyes of a Rwandan you would be a multi billionaire.

On five hundred dollars a week take home pay you support your two young children and your wife
As well as buy food, pay bills and the mortgage you do know about the hard life
In this Land they call you a battler you struggle just for to get by
Though the millions of battlers of Rwanda would say that the good life you enjoy.

You feel the whole World is against you a poor fellow on a poor street
But your fridge of food never empty and you and your family
have plenty to eat
And the hungry poor of Rwanda with you only would disagree
They would see you as a wealthy person for they know of extreme poverty

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Victim of his own Success

Man, victim of his own success, must fast grasp opportunity
to offer all equality of chances and advances stress
as the ability to press for rights for disability
the strong ignore, or fail to bless.

Man, victim of his own success, does not deserve impunity
when biosphere supportive he still stifles in the name of, - guess, -
‘Democracy’, free-choice oppress through ways of ta[l]king liberty
as only freedom to repress.

Man, victim of his own success, - tale’s pun, - few marks of modesty
retains, yet with anxiety observes galactic game of chess
while most Earth’s problems won’t address. This manifest dichotomy
highlights concerns we should assess.

Man, victim of his own success, needs to transcend his history
predative, channel energy towards solutions which suppress
his immaturity, redress the balance of society,
extend awareness free from stress.

Man, victim of his own success, must sail beyond tsunami he
created to a safer sea where winds of change may not express
a whirlwind strange that all confess none can control. Society
must change or soon will sink, regress.

Man, victim of his own success, must map return to sanity,
respect with assiduity the planet’s need to convalesce,
create conditions which attest acceptance by humanity
of overview which won’t aggress.

Man, victim of his own success, must understand ecology
requires intrinsic harmony, may join “I wish” to “I possess”
providing much more, - never less, - is harvested with equity,
without the urge to dispossess.

Man, victim of his own success should heed the lessons most agree
accompany pride’s apogee, and not attempt to second guess
the seasons’ reasons or finesse. Where just fat few progress we see
misuse far more than maladdresse.

Man, victim of his own success, beyond base skills of repartee,
should take time off from Time to key into distortions which transgress
ideals which should not ever stress the views of tight community
or vested interests. Nonetheless, -

Man, victim of his own success, must meet the challenges that he
has catalyzed - calamity around the corner waits unless
he acts - declines to acquiesque with urbane equanimity, -
protects his progeny’s success…

Which, victim of its own success, may stray from birthright destiny
to cul-de-sac of history, through compromise, increase distress
or narrow hopes where scope could press for change proactive, remedy
renewed temptations to digress through need to influence, impress,
the generations yet to be, compress its chances - tragedy
whose risks too high remain as we depict the options which depress
the outlook for our century.


(c) Jonathan Robin 1992 -2006

10 October 1992,3 October 2006

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Strongest Men are the Most Lonely

Apart from all men,
That have taken the world
Of genders, ambivalent or certain
Might have blunted themselves
Like stones on the shore

And in all their hearts,
Cancel the robust, omit the womanizers
Isolate the drunkards, and ostracize the blissful
One would remain, and straight with candor,
I will tell you this: he is the strongest.

Robust men, who pilfer the weak
And the womanizers with a blarney so obsolete
That it has overstated what stain these men hold
In their souls, that is why they fail to enrapture women
I too, have failed to enthrall, with or without love.

For the air is as scintillating,
As for the air that women share with men,
And that, as we ostracize the ebullient,
And talk about their tedious work during supper
We would be pondering over the unnoticed:

Where are all the lonely men?
You wouldn’t know, and you wouldn’t be sure
Because their tears are the most pure,
They ensconce pain because they’d rather see you there
In bejeweled beds, or waterbeds, making love with a drunkard

I shall quote Ibsen, like Bukowski did
For the quote justifies and vindicates the deed
“The strongest men are the most lonely.” You dare talk to me about somber
The somber felt in the loss of one’s reputation, without love
Then I shall tell you a story, where I have lost love before it took off.

In a thousand hazy nights, I do not drink with people
Stupid people, sullying with the same kinds of men and women
Who know nothing about pain, or what mystery lies
Behind the strongest men, for society has dictated
That a broken man is either confused with gender, or not that sharp with women.

I will tell you why I am not sharp with women,
And I shall tell you about my prayers
With my hands folded in the soliloquy of nostalgia and sallow nights
As my pallid lips utter words, words of the strongest men,
We do not pray for merriment, we pray for torture

Because men are forged with experience,
And not with cheap thrills of sex, alcohol, lust and indolence
If you do so, then you are not forged,
You are a child, in a playground, wan and wild
But devoid of all learning

Do if you must, conquer if you shall,
I tell you, I have been there, but not with lust and indolence and sex
But with alcohol perhaps, because a lonely man deserves a drink
From a goblet, in a narrowing room, and in a world that shrinks
Right before his feet, feet of stone.

So again, do not be envious
I am lonely, perhaps then, I am strong
Or maybe, I am wrong
Because with love, or without love
In the eyes of one woman, I am in distraught

The strongest man gets to be laughed at,
Jeered at, with stabbing convictions tousled in some bed
Not of cotton, but of sand, quicksand maybe, buried underneath it
No rescue has arrived, it is okay, for he is chivalric
Perhaps a gin tonic would do, if the circumstance permits.

I tell you again, I drink until I die,
Or at least, until the birth of the dawn,
But I never forget to kneel on both knees to pray,
Never did I avoid my pains, trust me, I cry at night
And cringe with the pain that I feel, perhaps, I will not be all right.

I am staunch in my beliefs,
That when one suffers here, animate, then he must be
Entitled to some kingdom far off, when time tells him so
Because the strongest men do not have place here on Earth,
They will never be approved by the mirth of the Gods.

I do not know if I am strong, let’s say,
A woman has left me; I will weep, and yes a woman has left me departed
In the morose dusk, I would feel unwanted,
As I unravel and unsheathe my scrawny shin,
I weep like a river, with my tears trickling down my chest

I would not advise you to give everything,
Because if love is a gamble, then it must be hinged
Or manipulated, fabricated or done with hearts on halves
Yet, I still did, wagered everything, gambled my whole life
As if to say, that in the conclusion, I will have my wife

Yet, my voyage is devoid and null
Look at me, I am categorized among the strongest men
Though not strong, for society has dictated again: “A man does not cry.”
Did you even ask why?
Maybe not, for men are scared of the truth.

In the littlest gist of allegories,
In poetry, prose, novels and short stories,
I have encountered men, who are the same as I am,
In times I long to live in a book, in the lines of a narrative
So all of you could see what lies behind this face

And so apart from all men,
The strongest are the loneliest
And so when the abandonment sets loose in a tempest
You will watch them weep, with or without love
But never did they flee. They never did.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Poet's Tale; The Birds of Killingworth

It was the season, when through all the land
The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blitheheart King;
When on the boughs the purple buds expand,
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;
And hungry crows assembled in a crowd,
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said:
'Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!'

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,
Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed
The village with the cheers of all their fleet;
Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,
In fabulous days; some hundred years ago;
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,
That mingled with the universal mirth,
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe;
They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words
To swift destruction the whole race of birds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightway
To set a price upon the guilty heads
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds;
The skeleton that waited at their feast,
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Then from his house, a temple painted white,
With fluted columns, and a roof of red,
The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight!
Slowly descending, with majestic tread,
Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right,
Down the long street he walked, as one who said,
'A town that boasts inhabitants like me
Can have no lack of good society!'

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,
The instinct of whose nature was to kill;
The wrath of God he preached from year to year,
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will;
His favorite pastime was to slay the deer
In Summer on some Adirondac hill;
E'en now, while walking down the rural lane,
He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane.

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned
The hill of Science with its vane of brass,
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass,
And all absorbed in reveries profound
Of fair Almira in the upper class,
Who was, as in a sonnet he had said,
As pure as water, and as good as bread.

And next the Deacon issued from his door,
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow;
A suit of sable bombazine he wore;
His form was ponderous, and his step was slow;
There never was so wise a man before;
He seemed the incarnate 'Well, I told you so!'
And to perpetuate his great renown
There was a street named after him in town.

These came together in the new town-hall,
With sundry farmers from the region round.
The Squire presided, dignified and tall,
His air impressive and his reasoning sound;
Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small;
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found,
But enemies enough, who every one
Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun.

When they had ended, from his place apart
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong,
And, trembling like a steed before the start,
Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng;
Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,
Alike regardless of their smile or frown,
And quite determined not to be laughed down.

'Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,
From his Republic banished without pity
The Poets; in this little town of yours,
You put to death, by means of a Committee,
The ballad-singers and the Troubadours,
The street-musicians of the heavenly city,
The birds, who make sweet music for us all
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

'The thrush that carols at the dawn of day
From the green steeples of the piny wood;
The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;
The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,
Flooding with melody the neighborhood;
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

'You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,
Scratched up at random by industrious feet,
Searching for worm or weevil after rain!
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet
As are the songs these uninvited guests,
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

'Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!

'Think, every morning when the sun peeps through
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,
How jubilant the happy birds renew
Their old, melodious madrigals of love!
And when you think of this, remember too
'T is always morning somewhere, and above
The awakening continents; from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

'Think of your woods and orchards without birds!
Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams
As in an idiot's brain remembered words
Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds
Make up for the lost music, when your teams
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more
The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

'What! would you rather see the incessant stir
Of insects in the windrows of the hay,
And hear the locust and the grasshopper
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?
Is this more pleasant to you than the whir
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,
Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take
Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

'You call them thieves and pillagers; but know,
They are the wingéd wardens of your farms,
Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms;
Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

'How can I teach your children gentleness,
And mercy to the weak, and reverence
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess,
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,
Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less
The selfsame light, although averted hence,
When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,
You contradict the very things I teach?'

With this he closed; and through the audience went
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves;
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves;
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment
Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves.
The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,
A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

There was another audience out of reach,
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws,
But in the papers read his little speech,
And crowned his modest temples with applause;
They made him conscious, each one more than each,
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause.
Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee,
O fair Almira at the Academy!

And so the dreadful massacre began;
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests,
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran.
Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts,
Or wounded crept away from sight of man,
While the young died of famine in their nests;
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words,
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds!

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead;
The days were like hot coals; the very ground
Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed
Myriads of caterpillars, and around
The cultivated fields and garden beds
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found
No foe to check their march, till they had made
The land a desert without leaf or shade.

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down
The canker-worms upon the passers-by,
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,
Who shook them off with just a little cry
They were the terror of each favorite walk,
The endless theme of all the village talk.

The farmers grew impatient but a few
Confessed their error, and would not complain,
For after all, the best thing one can do
When it is raining, is to let it rain.
Then they repealed the law, although they knew
It would not call the dead to life again;
As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came
Without the light of his majestic look,
The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book.
A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,
While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,
Lamenting the dead children of the air!

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,
A sight that never yet by bard was sung,
As great a wonder as it would have been
If some dumb animal had found a tongue!
A wagon, overarched with evergreen,
Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,
All full of singing birds, came down the street,
Filling the air with music wild and sweet.

From all the country round these birds were brought,
By order of the town, with anxious quest,
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought
In woods and fields the places they loved best,
Singing loud canticles, which many thought
Were satires to the authorities addressed,
While others, listening in green lanes, averred
Such lovely music never had been heard!

But blither still and louder carolled they
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know
It was the fair Almira's wedding-day,
And everywhere, around, above, below,
When the Preceptor bore his bride away,
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,
And a new heaven bent over a new earth
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth.

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Disposable Society

Annex the boreal
to make a bigger lavatory
Decapitate a Douglass
to use its corpse as toiled paper
As an aerosol aromas,
freshly minted with Pine fragrance
Celebrate a holocaust
depleting the outer permafrost
Flat screen TV's and old P.C.'s,
Reeboks Shoes fulfill our priceless needs


ten thousand years destroyed for redesigned geography
A million years to weep for seeds as mementos of
Our Disposable society

Adios too Jack pines,
make a wave for more mini malls
Halogen lamps improve the sun,
A/C air is better rune
Drown a bog for parking lots;
improve the smell with kiosk stalls
Satisfy your weekend lulls,
it's sure to give developers cause
To flush out chickadees, lynxes, any remaining caribou
With bulldozer evictions, lead the charge with peek a boo

The standards of living always grow to expire
Goods for 15 minutes that now served for carbon dating
Time capsule mementos of our
Disposable Society

Drive Supersized hot wheels
for oversized children
Ride a fiberglass mammoth,
For a middle class tank
The sky is choked black
from a soccer mom pimps cruise:
Insulate with Plexiglas;
block the window of the fumes
While geriatric pizzas
with snot infectious Swiss cheese
Are competing for the title of nostril flavored anthrax
In retrospect it wouldn't have killed if we all went compact

There what's left in our thoughtless collections
Degenerate perfection in industrial solutions
Our toy pollution, in a million year regressions
Reduce the Package and our selfish intentions

Neutralize the atmosphere
and put Oxygen on life-support
Just take some bottled air,
and tell your children it's always there
Prove to them life's never free,
even when it comes to breath
What you need you never know,
until you reap the seeds you sow


so make a plastic grave to our disposable society.

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Man to bear with woman

A modern woman wants more from her husband.
He should be compatible in bed, in society,
In providing, in emotion and in aesthetics value.
Where he fails there she sneaks for such man.

Allowances avoid cracks
as rails are laid with gaps.
Otherwise heart may break
18.01.2001, pmdi

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Woman gave way to man

The Goddess was the first born.
Far later only was born the God.
Matrilineal was the society.
Woman was supreme in the households.

Man wanted to identify his son
Patriarchal society was thus born.
The goddess became the God’s Consort,
Thanks to the established religions.
21.03.2010

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Emily Dickinson

Never for Society

746

Never for Society
He shall seek in vain—
Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate—Of Men
Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety—
Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—
Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—

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The society is a necessary evil.

A lone man, with a football,
On a lone ground, when heading the goal,
Can derive no interest out of it.
He requires court, rules, competitors,
And overwhelming spectators.
You have interest in life
As, with interest, the society watches you.
The society grooms you and brooms you.
24.05.2001, Pmdi

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I met an Honest man in this precarious World

Yes, on the street
While I was idling
He sleeps on the road happily
And he said very politely;
'Brother I tell you frankly
I don't know how to write my name properly.'
I shouted 'Ureka! And I met an honest person
His name is Man.'

*' I can't help living in a society that pays the Rolling Stones more than its Prime Minister.'
-Paul Simon

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A Common Man I Am

Like any common man I grope
And struggle to survive and be
Bold with Dignity and Hope
For life is hard and not so easy.

But this I say has made me braver
My hardships laid the lessons learned
Gave Wisdom, insight, character
My joy complete, sincerely earned.


'And we rejoice in our suffering,
because suffering produces Perseverance;
Perseverance, Character; and Character, Hope.'

Roman 5: 3-4

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A man of integrity

I wish to be
a man of integrity
and no other type of man can I be.

Duty is an old and somewhat cold companion
that changes with society
and what once was high en right
might be a shadow on tomorrow.

Training takes control
and stills the shaking hand in battle
and persevere in what some
see as great bravery.

I wish no guilt to follow in my steps
and I am only honour bound
and yet the cruelty of war
still falls over me.

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Surprise in Japan - A man's World?

a man's society
a hen pecked husband
nevertheless i found

He was a chef. He cooked while the wife managed the frontliners waiting tables. Every now and then, she would scream at the husband for not listening to her. It was a surprise because I have always been told Japan is a man's society where women are subservient to men. But it looks like times have changed and women have become more
vocal giving a damn to outdated society values.

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The Forgiving Society, ....

he accepts his dishonesty & by doing
so he has become another virtuous man in town
people embrace him
welcoming a new brother
it was only that little spot unstretchable
that he situated himself but all is gone now
forgiven &
sometimes she wonders how easily was it done
the stains he left on her are still there
enumerable, the children hate him, and time
have been too long to institute the repair
ah, here is society, fickle and amnesiac
over things badly done
rough on sand.

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The Man Without a Name

Deep within the chasm,
Lives the man without a name -
He’s come to represent
The secrets hidden in -
And so we, do we castigate
Those things not understood,
In culture and in worship,
In ideals and shades of skin

This society

Is it not hypocrisy
To cast as demons, if but only for
Subjective sin and character
Unlike our own -
If only I could exorcise
My coded prejudice, my DNA,
And pave a plane of equity
For our homogenous affinity -
And I would be the first
To grasp your outstretched hand, my friend,
To seal the man without a name -
To heal the man within.

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