I remember a hate-hating child,
when others laughed at expense of one
would agitate, not shrug and run
as now, matured. Experience makes mild.
Each unfairness in his small globe
was largely writ in bold bright letters
but now locked safe in chains and fetters
enveloped in maturing robe.
Where is that surge of righteous rage,
and where the anger of injustice served?
Remove my robe, worn undeserved,
expose my soul, my pure young sage.