when burst upon this weary world
a flashing bright of passion
and we, weak, burdened by our fall
from which we rise to an immersion
in the water of a hundred teardrops
ever carried and counted;
we have waited
with our waiting,
this is how it feels to be alive.
shouts the angry world
do not cry.
presses the ones who don't understand
but when was it decided
that these are not how we carry on?
when we first came
so they all knew we were alive.