To be born

what an irony, what a farce, 
what a vengeful oblivious treachery,
what a gift of a skin-wrapped blue razor,
what an ocean of tears with some atolls of brittle and sharp consolations,
what a chasm of blind sorrow,
and ignorant deeds,
and words,
and ideas,
and brutal conati,
all for one—for the spectral delight
of redemption
from all that aforementioned
that might never have happened
yet it have.


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