The vengeful cannot grow in love—
You cannot see in red
Each actions that your loved ones take.
Your feelings will be dead.
The vengeful cannot grow in virtue—
Machetes don’t grow trees—
Its scythe with harvest poisoned grains
For death’s all it can seize.
The vengeful cannot grow in peace—
They live in constant war—
The valleys flow with horse-high blood—
You’ll slip upon the gore.
The vengeful cannot calmly sleep—
They toss and turn in hate—
They’re slashing throats and gouging eyes,
Distributing their own fate.
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