They live under a criminal shadow
they, who walk past their own children
never teaching them the love,
never rehearsing with them
the surreal notes of river(y) pain,
never wanting to produce babies.
With sore hands who build the walls,
under a thousand moons
who cannot cry like a girl,
for a pinch of salty silence
who cannot desensitize the echoes
They live under a criminal shadow.
The fields of such stoned men
deserve a better farewell,
but there are no shaky hands
to company the funeral.
The children ask for their doom
they are granted their wishes,