I speak to you in the language of nights. Slow, lazy, lost in its letterless black. You listen in the dialect of days. Hurried, running, found everywhere in letters of black. Blooming, dying in between, a rose struggles to speak for itself.
I have an allergy to socks. I cannot wear them; however much I want to warm my numb toes in winters. But I didn't have this from birth. It's a surprisingly recent development.
A government has an allergy to 'many'. It cannot see them, so it touches them; not by chance, but intentionally. (Weird for an allergy). But the country didn't have this from birth. It's an unsurprisingly recent development.
Those 'many' that earlier warmed the numb toes of a nation, now surprisingly feel like my useless socks.