There is a poem called Humanity by Elma Stucky. It says, "If I am blind and need someone to keep me safe from harm,it matters not the race to me of the one who takes my arm. If I am saved from drowning, as I grasp and grope, I will not stop to see the face of the one who throws the rope. Or if out on some battlefield I'm falling faint and weak, the one who gently lifts me up may any language speak. We sip the water clear and cool, no matter the hand that gives it. A life that's lived worthwhile and fine, what matters the one who lives it?
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