Blame the beauty of the eyes,
the vessel of our essence and thorns to our rose
As it is not the soul that I despise.
For warped weeds are excluded where perfect flowers grow.
Those born as weeds curse their fate.
As gardeners see them as worthless and unappealing
and roses laugh like the rusty hinge on the garden gate.
Weeds are weeping and are unfamiliar to healing.
For roses lack empathy and salient solicitude
despite their thorns, their flaws, their arrogance which none dare to mock.
Even though roses form an ensemble, weeds are left with a lonely etude,
The division is clear, like the hands of a clock.
As humans those who stick out are thrown out
From beginning to end society has been like this throughout.
- Orpheus
