His disease   The eternal prejudice   Towards the unknown   Changed his life   Into a nightmare      So capable of drinking   The wine of monotony   And demanding an   Honorable death next to   his generation      All they offered him   Was the drink of slander   His personal stigmata      The cry was fake   But so frightening   His spirit wasn't there   When the steel entered his body      They will continue to   Desecrate his grave until   Dust is the only remain      But he isn't there, he is nowhwere   The martyr had stopped before   It (really started)