Never our fault

The more you live - the more you know,
And pain becomes more distant,
And people loved by you today
Can be, indeed, indifferent.

The causes might become the rareness,
So why we kill and why we burn
The thing that is so pure, so crystal? -
For love, it’s called, for “decent” cure.

We fall in frequence giving up
And prosecute the others,
When chose the path in our own
And blame the world, then rather…

We wrangle, hassle, we contend
Then begging for forgiveness
So why do thing - then praying still
For condescending bridle?

We grow, we live, we see the life,
Declare: we know each other,
Whilst looking in another’s face
Misunderstand the lover.

We call ourselves imperious:
Obeying makes the reign.
This makes it heinous torturer
Remaining all in vain.

We call ourselves courageous,
But when the arms arose,
We menaced conflict with the nuclear
And called it “valor”, nothing more.

We think we are the mighty,
When saw nothing at all.
We loathe on nearest people
When serving “G-ds” for all.

And when the time has passed
And lives been deterrently taken,
We say it wasn’t our fault -
Congenital, our nature.

And realising nothing all,
The nonchalant proclaiming,-
That nothing in this “lovely” world
Was ever our failure.