My father was a teacher

Het taught many students for many years

He was a poet and an artist,

He protected his beliefs he was a martir

 

He moved to the city of Colombia in South America

He taught in a little town called Ituango

we would write back and forth in poems and stories

but that didnt soothe my worries.

 

He knew he had a job to do

he taught civil war history 

he taught about tyranny

but his life ended with misery.

 

He was found one morning in the school he loved

By faculty and students who adored him

He was shot 3 times with defence wounds to show

And everyone knew who had commited the sin

 

The gerrilla of Colombia of who he warned so much

They had found him, and they killed him left him for dead

My father taught me many things

and one was not dread

 

To never give up on what you believe

teach and preach what is right

and always stand by those you love 

and he is why i write.