This isn't the dagger in your back, Though you reach behind yourself to pull one out. This isn't spittle in your face, Though your hand moves across your cheeks seeking the angry stain. This is not a plot by Hamlet, executed after protracted delays. You are not Ben Gunn, and I am not one of your former shipmates.
No, this is the rain cleansing the befoulment from Andy Dufresne. This is the removal of the iron mask. It’s Han’s blind quivering steps out of carbonite. It’s getting out of Jonestown before they stirred the Kool-Aid.
I feel for you in your lamentation. My soul even steps right up to the edge of an apology, But something about the oppressor claiming to be oppressed Makes any urge for repentance nauseating.
Your tears are not my affair.