He departs with praising mouths,

Yet hearts that blame still bleed,

In spirits he ponders how much wonders

Suffix to change bad hearts,

At the end he departs with a heavy heart,

For failure to win the hearts.

His nation failed him.

 

He departs with praising mouths,

Yet at crust lie rotten moths,

His existence brought pollen

To dispossessed souls that were poor,

And pains and suffering molten

To non existence.

A hero leaves his heart sore,

For achievements so few yet

Friends so many that deserve his attentions.

 

He departs with derisive dismissers

Standing by his grave and praising their own emptiness.

He departs with condolences that derive

Very much of his own achievement whilst mortal.

He leaves corrals of cowards that never went to war

Declaring themselves liberation heroes,

Yet children and mothers died

Before they died.