Prose of living about the man

I don't like you, pitiful one.
I don't like you, son of mine, blood of mine,
first born and a hope of mine,
your heart is kind,
but all in the family of Ishchan
must be ill-matured-dogs, children,
snake in the garden.

And you are kind-hearted.
Everyone praises you
saying conscience you have.

One must not be too sweet to be swallowed up.
He must not be to bitter to be spitted out.

But you are swallowed up alive, son of mine.
You say conscience.
Conscience is good,
when it belongs to a beast.

But you have no conscience,
pitiful one, that is why.