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Your Own Bloody Hands Let it be known I’ve enough of my own crimes and have no desire to answer for those of others. The crimes of man the crimes of history were none of my invention. They bore and disgust me as much As they do you. I was not consulted or asked for advice when Hitler marched on Paris. I was home asleep when the blind girl was raped. The children in the quiet village were murdered without my permission. I was 300 years unborn while the witches burned. I lack the imagination and ambition for such things, far too depressed to oppress. I only want to watch the sky through windows on rainy afternoons. My own crimes are common and paltry, sad little things hardly worthy of history books. But they are, at least, my own. They say ignorance kills more folk than bombs. Go wash your own bloody hands, girl, and leave me be. |