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Four men standing in
a row and then one laid across,
Just sticks of time and marks upon the wall,
A measurement of attitude, of loneliness and pain,
But others see it as a lot of scrawl.
Sticks of time, a
calendar of wasted days and years,
Just scratches of a life that's gone to waste,
While taking time to tell a tale of life behind these bars,
With years ahead there's never any haste.
Four men standing in
a row and then one laid across,
It's now a crowd that stands upon the wall,
As five men turn to twenty-five, then eighteen thousand strong,
With fifty years of scratching on the wall.
Fifty years, an army
strong, the witnesses of death,
Accusers to be first to cast a stone,
Such ridicule and torment is a thing that I accept,
For there is not a way I can atone.
Four men standing in
a row and then one laid across,
Just four men and the one who holds them tight,
Which binds me in this prison for a life and then a day,
And nothing I can do will make it right.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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