Knowing not whither I should aim me toward,
Reeling from crisis, ever running from,
Away without a measure of aplomb.
As I grow old, I read of young men who,
Self-assured in the cause of justice, knew
How to proceed, toward what they ought to aim,
Their goal, or goals in mind, and known by name.
Lord, they were killed, were murdered in their beds,
While I knew nothing but my childish dreads,
Which to this day gargantuan have grown,
Nor any moment's respite have I known.
How shall I make amends, for this sad lot?
I live, nor did I know when they were shot,
Yet my soul blotted as the bullet tore,
And life out of their wounds began to pour.