Another shedding of the innocent’s blood,
T’was money and bullets that tried to break the spirit,
T’was lust for power that wants ugly silence to rule,
His lonesome fight now becomes the fight of all,
His untimely death is surely not in vain;
His death is not in vain.
He fought the battle through airwaves,
While sitting on his ottoman chair;
His words had pierced many enemies’ hearts;
The same words that emboldened many cowards like us;
Those bullets drilled now transmuted into living seeds;
Growing inside the fertile hearts of youngsters;
Silver bullets against the flowing ink of pens,
Loud gunshots against the plethora of conscience-piercing words;
Surely his death is not in vain,
His death is not in vain.
Silver bullets pumped into his body,
Prompted this silver ballpoint to scribble this poetry,
Those drops of blood flowed out on that pavement,
Prime-pumped the ink that printed these verses;
And the paradox never ends:
The silver spoon that feeds our mouth to live,
Becomes a silver bullet that tries to send us to the grave;
Surely his death is not in vain;
His death is not in vain.
Anathema to them who thought
This crime not worth solving;
The viruses have escaped through the airwaves every morning;
Incubated inside the hearts and minds of the living;
Not even a thousand silver bullets could tame;
Surely his death is not in vain;
His death is not in vain;
The silver bullets that killed our kindred
Also becomes the metal casket that housed all lifeless
The claims of Death not only rest on the roar of silvery Glock and S&W
Or by the unrecognizable mimesis of it
Death comes to everyman on listless ways
The cash-starved gunman,
The unforgiving masters like vindictive Montesor,
All of us shall face the unpredictable;
The Grim Reaper suddenly strikes us with sharp scythe,
Unknowingly also made of silver,
Surely his death is not in vain,
His death is not in vain.