Be it not the times they live in,
Or the suffering of mankind;
But the good and evil balance from now tell the end
Of time.

He can't see for the sandstorm that clouds up his
Drain, nor feels the precious sunlight,
Or the delicate cleansing rain.
He cannot tell the difference from laughter or
Despair, nor can he feel the shiftness in the
Blowing air. He reckons he cannot have these; no one
Can really say, but for a hundred and twenty
Dollars his mother gave his life away.

She'll never know what he could have been;
He guesses she didn't want to be blamed.
He guesses she didn't want the burden of forever
Calling his name.