Now we are beginning to askthe crucial question.If it is natural to be blackand red or brown or yellowand if it is beautiful to resistoppressionand if it is gorgeous to be of colorand walking around free,then where does the problemlie?Who are these peoplethat kill our children in the night?

It does not matter to me: wherever you are grieving whether Paris, Damascus, Jerusalem, Bamako,Mexico or Beirut or New York City my heart, too, is bruised and dragging.There used to be such a thingas melodramawhen feelings could bemade up, but now there is bare painand sorrow,a sense of endlessly missedopportunitiesto smile and embrace"The other.

I am beginning to comprehendthe mysteryof the gift of suffering.It is true as somehave saidthat it is a cruciblein which the gold of one’s spiritis renderedand shines.

But cheer up. Who could have imaginedWhat the world is really likeWhen we were children?We’re old now, but in spite of all we learned,So much of it dreadful and scary, evenPetrifying,We gave LifeOur best shot.Perfection will haveTo wait for the next incarnation.And I mean of the world, not just us.

The world risingcan put an endto anything:the murder of childrenwhaleselephantsoceans.Get up. Roll overon that partof youthat will notwelcomerecognizeencourageor even seeour rise.A compassionate roll:we must be donewith crueltyespecially to ourselves,to start againbeaming like the sun;fresh.But a roll that showswe’ve reached the endof polite movesto repair and re-create the Earth,and will press hardon any parts of useven those we have loved,that insiston remainingobliviousandasleep.

Repelled by crueltylet us ban itfrom our hearts.

That politicians who smiled at us and kissed our babies blue eyes shining with triumph well knew we were falling into our graves kicked by them as they counted our votes.

Be what they do not want: Be thoughtful. Be skilled at loving. Be of good heart.Be of the world tribe.