How could those eyes the true knowledge see
Which ones sometimes did not shed a tear of loss?

The sincere sigh of faces buried in gnarled hands
Is penetrated by deafening screaming shrill silence
The past sounds are only vile memories in present silence
Even the yellow photographs are only haunted by the soul

Those old eyes have found the true knowledge
Which could see their ancestors gone forever

Obscure, quietly whispering shattered reflection
Pale child blood plows a stream in a callus palm
Treasured dusty memory of its sincere source
Hidden behind the mantle of closed eyes of eternity