Old man walks through a cemetery
We see the stone, he falls to his knees
Fingers claw the grass as tears fall
The picture of despair, he holds his head
I look at him
The dead man would always hurt him
Why then, so much grief?
I would not respect a monster so much
I always think of the two men, living and dead
The living man would always hurt me
He took my childhood, my desire for life
But I think of what he did for his tormentor
And I wonder,
When he’s dead
Will I do the same?