There is still hate in my heart for this wretch,
A hate that looms, like the string that hangs the men who ran.
But more akin to a rope, thicker than blood, unable to stretch.
1
There is still hate in my heart for this wretch,
A hate that looms, like the string that hangs the men who ran.
But more akin to a rope, thicker than blood, unable to stretch.
