When rosy fingered dawn does kiss the face,
the rigid hands, upraised as if in prayer,
as though, in their last moment, they sought grace,
redemption from a god who was not there.
who kneel in alleys dark, and empty rooms,
with eyeless sockets upraised to the sky,
where he found them, brought to them their doom,
left once warm living flesh now food for flies.
the light of the new day reveals the dark
work, of he, who is the king of fear.
upon each face he leaves his loving mark,
in the traces left by falling tears.
then bright sofia calls me to that place
to touch the dead and gaze upon his face.
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