Old hates lie in wait for the infant till he grows into a man. Then they leap upon him when he puts his father's coat on. When the father's bones drop into the grave, the lice flock up as the dark earth turns, to feed on a son's guilt-love. No man can look in his son's face, for what was done to him, he does in turn, and he carries the hate in his blood; ghosts of times forgotten, tragedies unseen, unspoken, wait in the past's proud flesh, and nothing will shake them off.