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"Can't feela thing" but it was a lie. No smile could hide, nor singing disguise, as his glazing eyes, like an eclipse, spelt out his suffering immaculately, letter by letter, verse by verse. "He can move the mountains" but, no one would move the bloody shrapnel, as his protruding ribs, like daggers, treacherously pierced the skin, inch by inch, second by second. "He is mighty to save" but dying, no one can escape, nor flee from, as his hope loomed closer, not close enough: he sputtered out his song and blood, line by line, pain by pain "Author of…" but the words faded. No more singing rose above the – anything, as h