My soul is stained by injustice.
Public condemnation took my innocence.
It banished me to a land far away
and gave me judicial rights.
Rights to judge and pass sentence
were surely never theirs to give.
Calling me warrior, native son,
then inserting the blade...
Wounds are deep and scabs
are not signs of healing. They
still burn and weep as I have
wept with these memories.
Sordid and confused, my heart
aches for closure. I wonder,
will this cup ever pass?
It must be almost empty.
Or, are scars eternal?
