A sad love poem set at the Guillotine in revolutionary france.
|I stand, despairing, in the throng.|
I stare at her for whom I long.
She stands so bravely in the queue,
Her hair is brown, her eyes are blue,
I fear her blood is red.
One by one the line gets smaller.
One by one our France grows taller.
My darling love is coming near
To death, though none will shed a tear.
Those demon hearts of lead.
I hear around me shouts of joy.
A Vicomte, our Saint’s latest toy,
Has met a royal traitors end.
And now who will the people send?
My most darling lover.
She loved too much I fear to say,
She had a sorry lapse that day.
She had a sister, who had wed
A man born in that class now dead.
They left undercover.
My sweet helped them, to England flee,
But she stayed here in fair Pari’.
The damned Committee found her out,
And of her guilt there was no doubt.
She walks her Passion Way.
Step by step she climbs the staircase,
Step by step, and she lifts her face.
She looks into my dying eyes,
But in her pride she never cries.
Unless the tears are gay.
She's beauteous in final prayer.
She begs reprieve from Satan’s lair.
She bows her head at God’s own name,
She blesses Him, The Three and Same.
Then bends to meet her God.
The guard he plays his wooden drum.
My mind is blank, my mouth is dumb.
The blade comes slowly down and down,
And what comes next ale cannot drown.
Her race she has now trod.
Silence reigns for seconds and years,
And then the stirring, then the cheers.
“Bring death to all aristocrats,”
Exclaimed the men in the red hats.
Death for the Republic.
Fraternity, and Guillotine!
Long live the Republic!”