FLIES IN DISGUISETell me,Have youReally seenFlies in a child's eyesOr heard their hungry criesIn the middleOf the night?Don't lie.You can protest all you wantAbout peaceAnd genocide,But unless you are willingTo take beatings for your fights,Your display of trendy showmanshipSimply ain't right.Go on,Carry your useless signsAbout an issue the worldAlready abhors,But it's TRUEHeartfelt actionsThat will preventSuits andSenatorsFrom creatingAny more wars.
The more light in your composition, the more generous you are. That is the first sign of a true light warrior. They give without waiting for you to ask. They give without expecting to be repaid. They give to strangers and even offer help to enemies. And sadly, because their light is so bright, they also attract tons of bugs and flies their way.
My mouth fell open in incredulity.“Ah, Maria. Are you trying to tell me you’ve taken up the sport of fly-catching with your mouth?”Ros reached over and lifted my chin.“And an assistant too. So that you don’t scare the little flies away. How wonderful; I didn’t realise it was a team sport. Interesting. Tell me, what do they taste like? I can’t imagine a fly filling any hole in your stomach. How many have you caught?”“That’s disgusting.” Ros screwed her face up.“My thoughts exactly.
When the weaver bird flies, nobody talks; when the busy bee flies, no one will make comments... But when a human being begins to fly, you begin to hear talks in the town such as "abomination!... where did he get the wings from?". Never mind! Your dreams are your wings, so decide to fly!
They all seemed hungry, happy, and healthy enough in their buzzing—oh the days were hot, and the noise of bees filled the air that was dusty with pollen and sun haze, and there were tiny black flies stuck to one another crowded by the creek and a creek stink rising from the deep pool under the willow tree where a wheat sack of new kittens had been drowned, and their tiny terrible struggling had shot like an electric current through the confusion of muddy water and up the arm of the person who had tied the stone around the mouth of the sack and thrust it into the water; and the culprit had not been able to brush away the current; it penetrated her body and made her heart beat with fear and pity. I was the culprit.