His hands are tainted with crimson mess,
For he did things that no one could do.
Who ever is laid down in front of him,
He slaughters without mercy; he cut slashes and hacks,
Without a speck of neither pity nor shame.
A tool of death that has no free will,
Only yeses to whatever commands he hears.
But behind that mask of dark cloth,
Lays a man who’s helpless in his ways.
A man who cries and a man who bleeds,
For his hands were now a different being;
Heretic hands that passes only one type of judgment:
Guilty beyond reasonable doubt
And punished like a scythe through a sprout.
July 7,2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem