Don’t be too hard on him
Reprimand him not too harshly
For he was baked into sorrow in his mother’s womb
And baptized into grief as he entered the world
He was born with a rusted spoon in his mouth
He was fed with gall instead of milk
Now he is old and bent
Bleeding, he seeks blood
Weeping, he yearns for tears
Across the sky, a reddish-blue hue
The flaming sun sets, absorbing darkness
On the edge of a cliff sits a lonesome figure
Staring at virgin stars, thirsty for peace.
