People talk, more than I.
I am ashamed of my past,
And confused about my life.
Where the history, of many lineages
Is well-described:
I am unaccustomed with mine.
What I know, of right & of wrong,
Is it predicated on the rule of the weak
By that of the strong?
The gaze thus glares from my eyes,
Does it live in black & in white?
Does bruised fruit still grow ripe?