You did not merely die, but you were murdered,
And so my anger magnifies my grief.
Love and hate are clean and filthy water
Spilling through my veins like hell unleashed.

I would but mourn, but vengeance clouds my sorrow;
I would but kill, but love finds there no peace;
I would but weep, but weeping is a river
That flows with vast intention to the sea.

I must, I must confess that I have lost you,
And find a place to plant my plucked-out love,
And look to justice, not revenge, to free you
To dance again with joy where loved ones live.