The tragedy of being the first child,

a mere experiment destined to go wild.

You made rash decisions, could have been more considerate,

you let religion here be a secret.

They should not have been pieced together

but without them I wouldn't exist.

So perhaps fate is with density, like sweet-scented heather

swaying under sunny weather,

until a great sweeping twist

comes along to kill what once flourished,

what was once nourished,

now lays on the ground in the rain

decaying, decomposing,

in so much pain,

dying, exposing

itself to death

chanted shibboleth,

I'm only what you made me,

why can't you see?

Why can't you see?

Let the river meet the sea.

Give the honey back to the bee.

Let the sunshine feed the tree.

Let the songbird be set free.

Let the lily be a lily

for what other choice does it have

but to be?

∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

༒