The Tears Of A Martyr Poem by Haala Marikar

Yours are the tears of a martyr, my son,
Withhold not the streak of silver from the barrel of the gun,
For, yours are the fears of a martyr, my son,
Your fear means you are what only matters: human.

Theirs is the inexplicable bloodlust of the chronically insane,
Theirs are the bullets of the coward who can only cause pain,
Theirs is the sanity ravaged by fevers in the brain,
All that their uniforms say is that they are inhumane.

So yours are the tears of the bravest, my son,
Know that, when they will kill you, it is you who will have won,
For, yours are the fears of the bravest my son,
This is not your end; your immortality is begun.