In a grave amidst the meadows,
Lay a stone in tranquil rest.
There walked a vengeful spirit,
He’d fulfilled his destined quest.
The soul hath raged in grief.
His life quelled by a friend,
But now he fondly strolled,
For that foe hath met his end.
Now, the spirit was not alone,
The field had lately filled.
In his quest for vengeance,
There’d been quite many killed.
The spirit came to a stop,
From a whispered, wailing din
Alas, the spirit faced,
His vengeance-driven sin.
There stood a team of doctors,
Red marred their garb of white.
A blade stuck in all their hearts,
They eyed the spirit in spite.
‘Bound, were we in duty.’
‘To heal your bloodied foe.’
‘In your vengeful battle,’
‘What evil did we sow?’
The spirit gasped in horror,
A hand slipped into his own.
Looked down to see a child,
Head cracked open with a stone.
‘Your foe was but your own,’
The child shed a lone tear.
‘I was but his mere work boy,’
‘What in me, caused you to fear?’
‘Ye served a ruthless fiend,’
The spirit snarled in a fit.
When a phantom cop emerged,
His neck marred by a slit.
‘Justice hears us all,’
Said the cop in mute despair.
‘Were our lives your ghastly message,’
‘Your threat, your powerful dare?’
The spirit knelt in burden,
His rest was not to last.
As his hated foe’s wife,
Joined the unrested cast.
‘You rest in avenged bliss,’
‘In just sunlight, you bask.’
‘What lives your vengeance took,’
‘Did you never care to ask?’
‘What sins did we commit?’
‘Who’s price must we thus pay?’
‘In your hunt for one man’s death,’
‘Must we all cease to see a new day?’
The spirit broke in tears,
As he saw the spoils of carnage.
His soul bristled, burned and quivered,
Under the eyes of collateral damage.
He turned to consolation,
Amidst the hostile premise,
After all he must rejoice,
At his foe’s vengeful demise.
His eye drifted past the unrested,
His ears drowned the wailing crowd.
For amongst the dead
He saw his foe in shroud.
The two turned to each other,
The foe looked him in the eye.
Said his vengeful sense of bliss,
Was a twisted, wicked lie.
‘You might lead me to demise,’
‘Yet peace is but a dream.’
‘Say how will you thus rest?’
‘With every wasteful dead man’s scream.’
The spirit had filled the meadow,
With stones of dead galore.
His rest had thus been marred,
He couldn’t sleep no more.
In a grave amidst the meadows,
Lay a stone, tranquil and white.
They say its spirit nightly wails,
With no redemption in sight.