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Who Am I to Complain?


From a distance I see,
She stands, at the edge,
With a hopeless face,
To the world, she wish, 
To bid farewell,
Maybe I should talk,
To her heart,
She might breathe, 
For another day, 
If I help.

Just below, I see,
On the bumpy hill,
They are having fun,
As if they are mentally ill,
With the highest speed,
They could ever reach,
They are about to crash,
Maybe I'll signal them,
They might not get hurt,
If I help.

A colorful bush,
A flower bed,
Bird songs reigned,
As they build their nest,
The evil hiss, to be heard,
But quietness instead,
As it observes, it's prey,
Maybe I should, chase it away,
They'll continue to sing,
If I help.

Seated on the branch,
As the tree stands tall,
Observing the surrounding,
Like a ghost, after its death,
I hear, a loud voice say,
Whenever, I go out of my way,
To save a smile,
In no time, they make me regret,
But Lord, they did worse to you,
So who am I, to complain?

-Debra R. N. Ludwick-

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