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The murderer’s eyes look just like mine—

Inherited from our parents,

A lifetime of small good deeds

And large responsibilities

Behind two dark pupils.

The murderer’s blood flows just like mine—

Red like a burning sunset,

Or the passion of a dream not yet met,

Warm like the red of our children’s smiles,

Flushed with a love viewed as a threat.

But the murderer’s skin is not like mine—

Ivory like the glow of the crescent moon,

While mine is as dark as the night sky,

That allows the moon to shine.

My murderer’s skin is not like mine,

But I am the one who died.


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