Scattered whispers all around,

Stains of crimson on the ground;

Countless faces looking down

At the woman in a gown.

As the white turns into red

From the blood the woman shed,

A man looking turns his head,

With no pity for the dead.

Not even the slightest fazed,

Or at least a bit amazed,

He knows that he could have saved

Her while she was still enslaved.

But his heart was since long cold,

Crushed and broken by the world,

And he couldn’t get ahold

Of his soul, that he had sold.

So he let the woman die,

Underneath the cloudy sky,

Murdered by a passer by

As the man turned a blind eye.