Swaying around, picking peck of dusts,
in this world full of unjust,
and to live, is what we must?
In this world, nobody chose to live ,
yet we are born—for what? to forgive?
Forgive the ominous, from their obscene
malicious sleeve. Law must be naive, to let it slip.
when the tears had dried and the voices fell,
when the fires burned out in this private hell,
you waltz in late with a "savior's" pride,
as if the wreckage was yours to guide.
And still, we sway, picking pecks of dust,
caught in the realm of misplaced trust.
To live, you say, is what we must—
but what of love, of dreams, of us?
