This is the secret: these hearts
I held out to you, they weren’t mine
They were all the broken-hearted
All the poets I read, all the wives
I’ve witnessed abused and thwarted
My sensitivity wasn’t mine, it was
My personal reaction to the tragedy of others
I’ve seen, our own obstacles don’t seem like much
It’s this world’s capacity to suffer
That astounds me, that outrages me
The exploited, the underdogs, the innocents
This is the secret: when you want to help the world
You put others first, somehow, for community
Is what binds us together, waiting to be cared for
It’s not only your children that need your help
Meanwhile, we refuse to do more than survive
Our comforts suffice, our legacies are private
After we have inherited so much more
Than they can ever hope to receive.
Wuji Seshat 