with precision, a target set,
by an order hidden beneath;
then wooden blow, or iron brand,
the street becomes a slaughterhouse.
deep malice stained all thru’ the plain.
where Zo blood spilled echoes thru’ age.
deep memories did beat the heart.
this silence etched the truth we bore
let the weary souls find their rest,
within a calm and quiet place.
this storming sea at last shall cease,
heavens! grant them eternal peace.
