We march to war,
in the name of peace.
We call ourselves compassionate,
so we kill the minds before the bodies.
We call ourselves tolerant,
so we weed out that which makes us uncomfortable.
Victims of nothing.
Orphans with parents.
Escapees of an open cage.
Long road to a short death,
vacuum existence surrounded by everything.
Turn it off,
walk away.
Shriek out in silence.
Who's hand does more damage,
the savior's or the damned?
No more pain,
only a warm tide of high.
No more suffering,
only bliss.
No more ugliness,
only staggering beauty.
This technological trial will make us all gods,
simply to watch us destroy ourselves.
Responsibility lies in no one hand,
yet we all grasp what will be tomorrow.
original prose, Yurei, 2000
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