My hand started this war.
How selfish of me.
The death of the duke.
It never occurred to me what my hands could do.
I lie here listening,
For the scraps of news of invasions, allies and the deaths I caused worldwide.
The thought of the cold gun in my hand still terrifies me.
My countries need for freedom sparked my plan;
The death of one man for the want of others.
It was my duty.
Dawn had broken and I waited for the sign.
The plot made.
The gun loaded.
The escape arranged.
He passed. I turned. I made my aim
The woman’s scream. Blood gleaming in the Serbian sun.
My hand shook. What had I done?
The shadow of the Black Hand Gang engulfed the world
I ran. Abandoning everything.
I was caught. It was too late.
It had begun.
So now I remain in my cell,
Surrounded by my guilt.
The murderer who murdered millions.
Yet I still live.
The silence here
The shouts and gunfire there.
I live here forgotten.
But my crime always remembered