In his wet white eyes I saw what I saw,
Visions of escaping – a joy so raw.
“The South”, he said, “my new home shall be”.
“The South”, he said, “shall see me free”.

In his wet white eyes I saw what I saw,
A friendly man – compassion so raw.
“The South”, he said, “shall be more welcoming than you”.
“The South”, he said, “shall be less violent too”.

In his wet red eyes I see what I see,
Visions of dysphoria – here too, is a killing spree.
“People of the South”, he said, “hear my plea”,
“People of the South”, he said, “a family of three is dependent on me”.

In his wet red eyes I see what I see,
A broken man – down on one knee.
“People of the South”, he said, “I am down to one breath”,
“People of the South”, he said, “You have caused my death”.

In his eternally closed eyes I see what I see,
This man was no different to you nor to me.
“People of the South”, I said, because he no longer could
“has the death of this man done you any good?”.