I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on; The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, The murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
In all people I see myself - none more, and not one a barleycorn less; And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them.
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