An infant,

we are adored when we cry.

A child,

we get a stain of digust in some people's eyes.

A teen, 

we are wasted figures who speak too much of the mind.

An adult,

Idiotic and immature when we want to go back in time.

We are bad in every transition, 

we are bad to let them control the ignition.

We learn what we see, and it will follow

Our born spark of happiness will soon be swallowed.

Someone say the words we are not bound to explain.

This is the prologue: The Hatred We Claim.