Big Recycling Bin

I bear in me the scars of years past
Of days that lived before my birth
My birthmarks are the scars of my forebears
A reminder: freedom is not free, freedom is pain
Those are the words of my scars

I was in the first drop of water
I lived in the first flame of fire
I felt the first pain of disobedience
Died the first death
I've always been part of the caravan
I traveled with history.

My anger is not mine
But of innocent victims
Of bloodshed and epidemics
Anger induced by pollution and corruption
Born out of the tears of infant mortality
Of civil unrest and injustice
Of plagues like COVID

I have always lived in times
The first flood, the crucifixion
Crusades and jihads
I lived through slavery and apartheid
I saw revolutions
If you've seen all these too
You'll see my point of view
The world is one big recycling bin.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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