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When this cadaver falls to the floor, making the dullest of thuds, would you hear me?
When this corpse rots on the floor, making the sickly sweet smell of past life, would you inhale me?
When this body bleeds on your floor, making a stain on your soul, would you see me?
When this man falls from your blade, grasping at his last breaths, would you feel me?
When this child cries on your shoulder, sobbing at his father's death, would you end his suffering?

The life of a man is not that of a number.
The value of a man is not weighed in gold.
The Spirit of a man is not held ruthlessly.
The Flesh of a man is not a season for a food.

So why do you use me as such?