Heart of Whimsy !

They crossed the border, yes— Illegally, some say, As if desperation had time To fill out forms. “They have no right to be here,” You declare, As if the land had always been yours, As if your ancestors asked permission. Anchor babies, You spit— Little brown children Born breathing freedom You want to deny them. “They live on our charity,” You claim, While fields are picked, Homes are cleaned, And taxes paid in silence. But it’s not about borders. White immigrants pass through the gate With smiles and handshakes. No one asks for papers When they blend in. This is our country, You shout. But whose country? Yours by skin? By fear? By the comfort of sameness? The shame is not theirs. It is ours. And it has no accent— Only a mirror.

The Blessed and the Burdened (A Manifesto for the Well Born) It is truly a blessing to be well born. To enter the world through no doing of your own — cradled in safety, fed without fear, taught to speak the right words, walk the right paths, dream the right dreams. You did not choose your fortune, but it chose you. And for others? It chose differently. They are born into the bottom tiers, where the floor is hard, and the ceilings low, where the labor is endless, and the rewards are few. Their backs bear the weight of a world that calls them “unskilled,” “expendable,” “lazy,” though it cannot function without them. Society is not a ladder. It is a machine. And machines require gears — some large, some small, some shining, some worn down to rust. The economy does not ask, “Who deserves to rise?” It asks, “Who will serve where we need them?” This is not a flaw. It is design. If all were equal, who would pick the fruit? Who would sweep the floors? Who would clean the wounds, staff the mid...

  Oblivious to the pains of want, hunger, suffering, money is but an inconvenience to manage— yet the obsession to possess it, to wield its power and false freedom, is beyond intoxication— beyond addiction— beyond human worth. Others sacrifice their years to scrape a subsistence, slaves to an economy built for the well-heeled, laborers, servants, swindled by the elite, ground down in silent devotion until one day they die— unnamed, unmourned, yet essential. And then those who grovel in the gutters, eating scraps, wearing rags, swallowing fire to silence the ache of existence— they too enrich the greedy overseers of an unjust society. Many classes. One humanity. Too little compassion.