They stained the Song of Peace, dear Itzak,
Stained it with your blood.  Shed by a
kinsman of twenty-three, fundamentalist and young.
You've joined your brothers Sadat and King,
Ghandi, Lincoln, and peaceful souls unborn.
A boy, did this, too young to understand the
death tolls of the thousands yet to come.

We mourn your passing, your open hand.
The light of your eyes shot closed and done.
We mourn with wails and tattered clothes the
Blindness which caused your blood to run.
For peace and brotherhood, your martyred crown
Stands tarnished in the desert sun.  For childlike
In tantrums rash, they fled your forgiving vision.

What light is left to illumine our times,
Troubled, fractured, cold, alone?  Your kinsman
Cried his bloody rage with sulfur, lead, and gun.
What now, we're left with empty breasts?
What now, dear Itzak, that you've passed?
Our hearts and prayers, leaden'd, can't grasp
Your songs of this dark world's ascension.