The Peasant
The peasant refuses to see, astonishing thoughts cross his mind. As resentful as the devil they rise. As happiness skipped his lane and as offspring of contempt, the peasant was born condemned: thou killed the one, those actions were in vain. Neither the shadows nor the darkness remain. How special thoughts shall they carry?: nothing but reflective words of an art with no artist. As the blacksmith forged the silence of the outcast, its blood thickened into ice. Shall the fury of the betrayed lover rise? Shall they be condemned? As no words were heard, his pain will linger though his body can’t remain.
