Post by bran_sinnach on Nov 17, 2006 19:24:57 GMT -5
Who cries for me?
The wind hums in my ears
And I am thankful because
It carries away the mutterings,
Curses, and mourning of the crowd,
An audience enticed and hypnotized
By the drama of vindictive
Justice and arrival of
The Reaper's Messenger.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
I pretend I am not a pariah,
An object of fear, dread, shame,
Revulsion and rumor.
I am the final arbiter of Judgment,
but I hold no claim to Divinity.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
It is always better
When they wear the hood,
Better I cannot look them in the eyes,
Cannot drink of their regret and frustration,
Their rage and misery.
The tragedy of their misspent lives
Is hidden from me during these last moments.
It is better when I cannot see myself
Reflected in their gaze.
The wind dances around me,
Plucking at the edges of my coat,
The legs of my pants,
Fanning coolly across my face,
Which I hold as stone
Less the crowd and the condemned
See the pain that rolls from
My flesh like the frost
From ice.
It is always Winter in my soul.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Who cries for me?
Adjust the noose one last time,
Wait for the priest to finish
His empty prayer to a vengeful God.
Press the lever and watch the body drop,
Plummeting so short a distance into Eternity.
Drop, snap, jerk, tremble, swing heavy, like a sack.
Hear the crowd sing their music of shocked dread.
I pretend I am not weeping inside.
There is no poetry in this.
Tomorrow the sun will rise on a new day
Made dark by yet another appointment
With Punishment
And Retribution,
And I will do what I do.
Who cries for me?
The wind hums in my ears
And I am thankful because
It carries away the mutterings,
Curses, and mourning of the crowd,
An audience enticed and hypnotized
By the drama of vindictive
Justice and arrival of
The Reaper's Messenger.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
I pretend I am not a pariah,
An object of fear, dread, shame,
Revulsion and rumor.
I am the final arbiter of Judgment,
but I hold no claim to Divinity.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
It is always better
When they wear the hood,
Better I cannot look them in the eyes,
Cannot drink of their regret and frustration,
Their rage and misery.
The tragedy of their misspent lives
Is hidden from me during these last moments.
It is better when I cannot see myself
Reflected in their gaze.
The wind dances around me,
Plucking at the edges of my coat,
The legs of my pants,
Fanning coolly across my face,
Which I hold as stone
Less the crowd and the condemned
See the pain that rolls from
My flesh like the frost
From ice.
It is always Winter in my soul.
I do only what I do.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Who cries for me?
Adjust the noose one last time,
Wait for the priest to finish
His empty prayer to a vengeful God.
Press the lever and watch the body drop,
Plummeting so short a distance into Eternity.
Drop, snap, jerk, tremble, swing heavy, like a sack.
Hear the crowd sing their music of shocked dread.
I pretend I am not weeping inside.
There is no poetry in this.
Tomorrow the sun will rise on a new day
Made dark by yet another appointment
With Punishment
And Retribution,
And I will do what I do.
Who cries for me?