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)