He opens his eyes and looks at his cell
A ball, a square, a diamond, a star.
He speaks as if to tell,
A tale of sweet sorrow hes survived thus far.
Lips part to speak and not a word.
Eyes with fear, drowned in tear,
He listens as if to hear
What he knows wont come forward.

In this box all is mute.
In this, his world, he is nothing and all.
In this, his mind, he must fall.
From this hell he commutes,
His words of strength to others.
Yet irony is without humor
For on eternal silence his word flutters
And give birth to an endless tumor.

He bites,
He scratched,
He fights,
With a scream, a bellow he tried to match
The soundless sympthony his heart played
Of pain, of love, of anguish.
And so he smiles, a knight whos perished
The perfect play his soul has made.

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