We cross the streets without fear,
But for how long will it be that way?
We look at love everyday, but we don't see it.
That's a choice, maybe unconscious,
But its ours.

There is love in the humility of a beggar:
The lasting love for his life, despite all the misery witnessed.

There is love in the cursing in traffic:
The remnant of our attachment to steel, iron, rubber and leather.

There is love in looking the other way:
We value our privacy so much, no additional drop of love could fit.

There is love in keeping the garden green and clean:
The greatness of neighbors' compliments could not be more gratifying.

There is love, misguided, but, still, love.
A perverted love for a nation,
For freedom of speech, of choice, of love itself,
Perverted in all aspects, tooling for hatred.
Hate is necessary, but not constructive.
Love is necessary, but not diverging.
Space is necessary, but not kind.
Approach is necessary, but never completing.

There is a missing part everywhere.
We just cannot fill it with the wrong pieces.
It'll be a nuclear plant turned into nuclear bomb.