Human, being said to be conscious
living is defined by what he does
lifes are chenged by his choices
But how could I be called human
when all I choose seems predefined
when to me, the meaning of life is unknown
Conscious I am said to be,
but how could I be more unconscious
When the world's sadness fall upon me when a loved one dies
and unaffected I am when when million other's die each day
When, at eas I sit before my TV
as one's life, in an alley is taken away
I am human, I am called conscious, living and intelligent
But not more than a sleeping lion am I aware of the child who died at birth
Not more than a walking ant am I aware of a family's hope,
whose dreams are taken away before him powerless
I sure am conscious, of how little I know
that I live, only until I die
that I choose, until I have no choices left
That being human, is knowing
that my life is but existence
and my consciousness mere awareness
before what lies beyond the midst of life