His disease
The eternal prejudice
Towards the unknown
Changed his life
Into a nightmare
So capable of drinking
The wine of monotony
And demanding an
Honorable death next to
his generation
All they offered him
Was the drink of slander
His personal stigmata
The cry was fake
But so frightening
His spirit wasn't there
When the steel entered his body
They will continue to
Desecrate his grave until
Dust is the only remain
But he isn't there, he is nowhwere
The martyr had stopped before
It (really started)
