Hwang Yang Poem by John F. McCullagh

His mother goes there every day.
His dried blood stains still mark the spot.
She gets down on her knees and prays.
Such grief will never be forgot.

Her son was murdered for his phone.
A single bullet to the head.
A single gold shell case was found
not far from when he was found dead.

He was his mother's only son
coming home from work at night.
Police came and took his Dad-
for victims must be identified.

Such suffering must one's heart bear
remembering that final day
to see him silent on a slab.
over and over it replays.

So numerous are Urban youth
like drops of water in a stream.
Still each dropp is a human life.
Every droplet bears a dream.

His mother goes there every day.
A gentle rain begins to fall.
His girl left some carnations there.
She struggles to accept it all.