She or he, or them or they;
We’re all the same in some small way.
We crazy laugh, and then we cry
As dreams unmet leave us with “why?”
Blake’s famous poem says it so:
We all are meant for “joy and woe.”
As suns do set they also rise
Upon our hearts and human eyes.
So as we wonder down the path
Abundant now with scorn and wrath,
We’re best to stop, then look and say:
“How, my friend, are you today?”
And then we’ll see it matters not
The labels for which we have fought.
For when the soul finds kinship sweet
A pronoun there is incomplete.