Murder

The pale yellow light shone on his face.
He made sure he left no trace
Of foottracks in the tall, dead grass.

The crickets chimed an endless song
Of fate, and death, and hope long gone
As they watched the culprit pass.

A dirty blade hung at his belt
That scraped the ground as he knelt
And covered his face in his hands.

The poor man stole this young boy’s coat,
And so the boy slit his throat.
Does his crime justify the man’s?