The Human Condition

Allow me to impress upon you,

The true beauty of living with honour,

Of dying for your fellow man,

Of living free, with the object of your affections, snug by your side,

Not a care in the world, and yet,

With the wellbeing of your loved ones, forever on your mind.

 

Such souls are a rare breed,

Born to a life orchestrated, with surgical precision (it would seem),

Toward the uncompromised protection, of those desperately in need,

With no thoughts spared, for the comforts of lesser men,

Who, at a dime a dozen,

Poison this world, and its paltry stock, of decent human beings.

 

Yet at the heart of it all,

All this honour, this decency and selfless gallantry,

Lies a phenomenon well known,

A singularity old as time itself, and all the more important,

For it is a better healer of wounds, festering with the cruelty of a world unforgiving;

The human condition, known as Love.

 

By Lashane Cooray

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