Perhaps, I Know.

Why sometimes all of us

are such exponents of deceit.

Such born killers.

While I tore a young flower

petal by petal,

And laid a hot coffee cup

on a crawling ant.

I knew I was scared of death,

my death.

Perhaps, I Know.

Why sometimes all of us

are such pools of pity.

Such life-givers.

While I nursed a dying bird.

And smoothed the hair of an orphan-child.

I knew I was happy of life,

my life...