Up till morning in the dawn of the sun
Do the tears run past a moist cheek
Battles and wars inside were never won
No innocence was left to seek.

The rope hangs from the old well
That holds the rusted pail
The water beneath it lurks with a smell
And is anything but frail.

Relieving the mind and demons inside
Does a knotted rope could do
And the tortured know they have yet tried
To **** what plagues them true.

One speaks about death lightly
As if life is for the weak
But you were awake nightly
Crying to a future bleak.

The scarred young hand touches the rope
And pulls back ironically again
For if death is desired, where is hope
So is anything all right, then?

The knot is political against the world
For if something could save them, it would
But their corpse was carried in a tombstone curled
And the noose was burned with their childhood.