It runs deep, flowing in our veins.
Red as blood, warm as the sun.
We feed it, nourishing it to grow.
It hurts our souls.
It feeds our emotions.
Its name we all know.
The same in every language.
We know it, and we use it.
Sometimes we hate it, but we cannot help it—we are who we are.
We know it will always be with us.
To see it in the old and young is to see that it has not died.
Others say we use it wrong.
How do they know?
Are they the great and all knowing masters?
It runs deep, flowing in our veins.
Red as blood, cold as ice.
We need it, we cry for it.
They need what we use.
They need our only item.
They want and need it.
It is in our blood.