The death of an ideal will be grieved
Whether if be Freedom, Love, Pity or Hate.
When it's gone we all feel a bit bereaved.
Something is dead. There can be no worse fate.

Freedom's voice rings clear through all lands:
No one is immune to its siren's call.
Freedom's death is dealt with all too evil hands,
Bringing desolation and fear to all.

The death of Love is especially sad,
We feel is so much more than all the rest.
Love is what keeps mankind from going mad:
Gone--we feel its loss deep within our breast.

Of what importance is pity, you ask?
Why, it is of great importance indeed.
It allows us to rip off our cold masks
And help others who are so much in need.

Hate's death is really no surprise at all.
'Twas bound to happen sooner or later.
When Hate cracked his door, 'twas death come to call:
"Leave I must," Hate said, "but my conscience is clear."

Epitaph

Here lies Freedom, next to him Pity.
They tried to succeed but were unable;
Both fought hard and their deaths came valiantly.
Without them we are not quite as stable.

Here lies the ideals of Love and of Hate.
Together in death as they weren't in life.
Who would have thought: two such unlikely mates
Hand in hand, marching onward, toward the light.

4/28/99