The cry

I don’t cry, why? I don’t know, should I? Maybe it will make them happy. They don’t give a damn, I guess, listen! You have to repent some day–when the voices will thunder over my concealed coffin, when I will be a loser no more, the hero they had waited for, they will shoulder my weight with pride and honour shall sprawl over my streak. They will know me then, not a coward, a fighter they feared. My story is short not that short to vanish like you would, it would stay more than your life in the hearts of those, for whom I have fought against the tyrant. Don’t laugh just look me in the eye, see the storm brewing, the birth of rebellion. Just be there when they prepare me for the journey, feel the aura of emotions, you will drown in that sea, you tormenting soul will escape with the crowd, the look on your face will make your mother frown. Just leave the place and save your filthy life.