Some die while they're swinging. Some die in their sleep.
Some die being famous. Then others will weep.
Some die in a bathtub. Some die on a field
decoyed by skulls and by bone.
As brothers they marched there, quite eager to wield
their mortality. Some die alone.
Some die because they just quit living.
Like when only silence kept true.
Remain unforgiven, but keep unforgiving.
Because so, little dead one: did you.