Tears spill down the youth's pale face

Spilling into the snow; leaving patterns of lace.

Nobody understood the pain

That shot through his every cell and vein.

How many hours had he spent toiling

The blisters on his hands were boiling!

And yet he slaved always away

Every night and every day.

The work was forever the same

But he never earned any fame.

Even in times of good that are great

Everyone has to meet their fate.

When time comes for the youth to reach his

The only thing people have to think about is this:

When you are the only one to burry the dead

There is no one to sprinkle dirt on your head.