Even the dead tell stories,

If you only lend an ear to hear them,

If only you take the time,

To bow your head and look.

Though their eyes have melted,

And their skin was ripped,

And their flesh was eaten,

Their bones still remain at the end of times.

On the bended femur,

Is written a tale of hate.

In the cracks of the ribs,

Is carved the echo of a scream.

The broken knuckles,

Witnesses of a fight.

The pool of blood,

Witness of a life.

The body has no face anymore,

No identity, no history.

Just a forgotten name,

Stolen by the hand of a man.

Once someone,

Now only a bleached skeleton.