The street runs red with blood,
Only I can see
He flees, the perpetrator,
And the world goes on
Every world except mine
Her shrine,
Is built, and rebuilt each night in my heart
How hard is it to take a life?
The one that gave you life?
He covered his sins with her blood,
Called it honor
And I weep rivers from my land,
In a language they don’t speak here
I’m trying to find words and not having much luck. Wow. Great poem, very difficult subject. Beautiful yet haunting, to put it mildly.