A genius without ambition,

led down the path of the poor,

to throw his life down,

before the abyss' door.

 

An unexpressable pain hangs 'round,

the image of your corpse underground,

in wars fought for land, cash and crown.

 

 

Where are the eyes that looked so mild?

What punishment befell us when you smiled,

no longer innocent?

 

To whose drum do you march?

Which guns force the start?

when will the

guns and drums,

and drums and guns,

pace your steps and drain your heart?

 

Where are the legs with which you run?

On which shoulder is the setting sun?

 

And what will be left of you

when the barrel gives you cue,

and your eyes project naught but death.

 

Where are the legs with which you run,

when first you went to carry a gun,

indeed your dancing days are done,

Oh friend, I hardly knew ye.