The child of his mind
Is different;
Sounds, small or big,
High or low,
Don't get its favour,
For they wage wars
Across the boundaries
And are delight
And fill their bellies
Of selfishness.
That morning,
He commanded me,
Go out quickly,
The persons are shouting.
The sick was too sick,
But for him
It was a sharp sound.
We hate them
Because they don't behove
Our nature,
Still they're
The perfect performances
Of wings and instruments,
Oh, his child is different.