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
