Their screams are whispers,

their presence is the stench of decaying filth,

but still they are our future.

The children of our elders,

It’s the most we could ask for,

the peace we search so hard for

the time we should all be grateful for.

When it is our day,

then we rise from the hell that is this life,

and fall into the earth to the sound of a sol um sonnet.

So my mind will be still,

and my brain will be dead,

and finally I can rest my head.

With no more pain and no more torture,

no more thought or time to think.

The day will be dead,

and over is all it shall be.

And only then shall I start to get over the pain,

the pain I have carried since the day you left me.