In the night of the full moon
Just Out of the reach of the Oak’s Shadow
Lie three graves of melancholic melody
Legend has it that it belongs to one family
The third grave is the freshest one
The flower still blooms on the graveside
The Letters still coherent to make a name
A man who played such a strange game
His eyes never gave away a pain
When the legs were wobbling in the rain
A bloody mess of man never seen or heard
Says the leathery lonely roadside shepherd
He left carnage and some bodies to die
A silence so painful and a lady to cry
A Knife of young Valor found its way to his spine
Death was not heartless enough to that heartless swine
He wore no armor, rode no steed
Walked like a Cat and slayed for a creed
There was no heart but a lot of precision
Recounted the broken physician
One man stands in respect to the grave
A bum, a drunkard for which no heart craves
The carnage was the scar of silence, he cries
Where judgments are mere sounds of science
Never saw a foot so sure and refined
Right was wasted and wrong was not defined
Words gave way to a silence so ominous
The other man to judge was just so meaningless
A red haired boy laughs at the grave
Men without reasons were never meant to stay
The knife of my anger that found its way
Killed a hero who is a ghost today
My house did not catch your fire
Neither do I mourn a loss nor feel a pain
The freedom of your game violates a plan
Man should not play above the equality of a man.
