I touch the old man dying in his bed
I cry

I see the dog on the street long dead
I cry

I hear the squeal of a pig being slaughtered in the shed
I cry

I smell the burning of a village wreathed in red
I cry

I taste blood and think of the thorn stuck in his head
I cry

I count the street people standing in line waiting to be fed
I cry

You say I am morbid, seeing darkness instead of light
I say, I cannot enjoy the light until I have met the darkness