But how come, she said;
That they call you pretty just because you have smooth skin?
And you have a face that looks like it's made from glass?
How about me? How about us?
How about those who spent their lives plowing the field of helplessness?
How about those who were undreamt because they are unknown?
How about those who suffer from tragedies that weren't even told?
Are we ugly then? She wept.
Are we ugly because we're made of scars?
Are we ugly because your beauty is different from ours?
- a cry from those who can't speak.