No blood was spilled, no blade was drawn,
No battle raged from dusk till dawn.
But still, a soul was dragged downhill
So tell me, friend: did you not kill?
You said no curse with lifted hand,
No gun, no rope, no violent stand.
But sharpened tongues and silent spite
Can snuff a soul like endless night.
You badmouthed him when he left the room,
Planted doubt that would quietly bloom.
You dressed your envy in whispered prayer,
And wished his ruin from your chair.
You bowed your head and closed your eyes,
But begged for thunder in disguise.
Not justice, peace, or clearer skies
You asked your god for his demise.
You smiled at him, said, “Go in grace,”
Then prayed he’d vanish without a trace.
No blood beneath your holy shoes,
But tell me, what’s the death you choose?
A sigh, a slander, a wish too grim,
A hope that life would punish him.
Not every murder needs a knife
Some kill the soul, not just the life.
And when he broke, and fell, and fled,
You said, “Poor thing,” while forging dread.
But Heaven heard what you concealed
And angels wept for what you sealed.
So let the words on stone be true,
Not just for swords, but for what you do
With prayers, with hate, with quiet thrill:
Yes, even then, thou shall not kill.
— Maki