I don’t mean you, I mean the other ones

Yes, I see you standing there, that question in your eyes -
So let the record show, my loves: don’t swallow down the lies.
When I speak of the battle, when I speak of what must be done,
I don’t mean you, my sister. I don’t mean you, my son.

I don’t mean you. I mean the other ones.
Not the ones beneath these skies. Not the ones under these suns.
Not the ones who walk your road, who break with you your bread,
Not the ones who love and grieve -
no, something else I said.
I mean the other ones.

Not the ones who flee the fire. Not the ones who bear the cross.
Not the ones whose backs are bent - we understand their loss.
Not the ones who cook the food, who build and clean and mend,
Not your neighbour. Not your friend.
No. This does not extend.
To you.

But tell me - who are they, exactly?
The ones who do not feel the cold?
Who do not watch their children sleeping,
praying they grow old?
Who do not search the same night sky
and find the selfsame light?
Who bleed a different blood than yours?
Who dream a different night?

They do not exist.

Every stranger is a friend
your hands have yet to hold.
Every face a story written
in the same casting of ancient gold.
They are us. And we are them.
It is so plain. So clear.
So you understand, of course -
it isn’t you. Not here.

As you spend your life finding them,
on every road you roam.
You will meet, in every soul,
a door that opens home.
Because there are no other ones.
There never were you see.
There was only ever,
Other ones like you and who?
Ah yes, you … and me.