Nothing to me – is so lovely as a bowl of chili my mother made me. But now I feel sorry and filled with doubt; wondering wistful – what I’m about? Studying history Buddism; pain. Farming meat and suffering.
I’m sorry Mom, I miss your food; but as a man now, I must choose. Compassion is in me as I try to digest a diet void of the greedy machine. Still some fish but much more green servings remain in my memory:
Nothing as lovely as my mother’s chili.
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