There was a rhythm in the night,
an echo from out of sight,

footsteps on cold concrete,
in an ally, dimly lit.

It was his last night guarding,
representing law and justice,
so much patience to practice.

He worked for the police: so slow and sluggish,
bound up in red tape, corruption and *******...

But tomorrow he'll be free,
returning to his farm house; the one with the old tree,
breathing in the fresh air, with the scent of young grass,
not like the city, smelling of smoke and gas.

His dreaming was cut short, by the sound of shattered glass,
turning around he saw a spark, heard a shot: he was caught...

Falling into death, the eternal black mass,
the last thing he saw; fields of green grass...