He opened the binding of The Weeping Book curiousity piqued, he needed to look but how he wished he had never seen the horrors therein that were so obscene.
The guilt of man along the passage of time senseless slaughter without reason or rhyme each page he turned ill had been done by book possessed he ventured on.
The **** and pillage of those years before children the victims of violent war races were mixed, the one good thing vicious hecklers of bigotry sing.
On and on through the pages now the hurt caused pain behind his brow saints and sinners all listed here their sins for all to see quite clear.
He saw the vilest sins of history's pain enslavement of those for other's gain let loose man's done some terrible things hope's voice is quelled by vicious stings.
The Weeping Book so perfect in name from front to end it's full of shame and he a priest of noble birth would find before day's end, his worth.
No water passed his lips, nor food his mind so troubled by soured mood and then the page on which he gazed revealed the future of a man gone crazed.
No change could he make to the book transfixed at his poor fate he'd look and as he pushed the dagger deep as fate revealed he went to sleep.
The Weeping Book then slammed tight shut till guilty man next came and put his hand upon the tome's dark cover then his sad fate he'd soon discover.