How could I ask a man to die upholding the morals of a society that has wholly failed him?
How could I ask him to take up arms to defend a land to which he is treated a stranger,
even though he knows its soil more intimately than those who claim to own it?
How could I pluck the fruits of the earth from his hands to add to my garden, when his are scarred with toil and bent by broken limb?
I know not the price of nothing, save the shrivelled skin and broken teeth of wanting.
But I rage all the same —
I rage at a world designed to crush the already crushed;
I rage at a world that seizes the air from the lungs of the gasping;
I rage at quiet, forgotten death beneath the blanket of city light;
and I rage at my own thriving,
while others writhe in the cage of our designing.