Lesen

The darkness in man, it stretches and deepens,
In silence it thrives, in justice it weakens.

It grows without shape, without limit or law,
Beyond what we fathom, beyond all we saw.

Their sins are so vile, the Devil keeps notes,
Preparing hell for his travelers’ souls.

They speak of the war like it happened to ghosts,
But I saw it walk streets, not far from my home.
Not as myth, not in books, not in leaders’ commands,
But in men turned to beggars with no helping hands.

A boy I recall, not yet twenty in years,
His eyes still held pride, though they shimmered with tears.
No arms left to lift, yet his gaze wouldn’t fall,
Forced to beg in a world that had taken it all.

The depth of his grief, I dare not pretend,
For some pain speaks a language I’ll never comprehend.

They call it freedom, but it’s theft of the soul.
It burns through the living, and leaves no one whole.