The Guillotine

Down on the hill a guillotine stood,
And on it a man with a thick black hood,
"Woe are the ones who stand on this spot,
And vile are the ones," said he, "Who do not."

The first to go was an innocent man,
Or so I thought as a peasant can,
Down the blade came with efficient speed,
And so the shined metal began it's feed.

The second to die I did not know,
I just knew it was I who did not go,
The wood became dark and black to the sight,
And none spoke a word of loss that night.

Third was a woman with short, severed hair,
And in shock we pretended we did not care,
Down came the blade and none spoke a word,
Not a sob, or protest, or thought was heard.

The fourth, I admit with a bought of despair,
Was a child with a mood and eyes so fair,
I said not a word, but it broke my soul,
And the rest of that night was foreboding and cold.

It took the lives of women and men,
The desperate, old, and those under ten,
And so stood one, the finalist, me,
The silent, the innocent, and the dead to be.

"The guilty are gone," I said to the man,
"Their blood is spilled, all over your hands."
Nothing came but silence as he,
Lifted a white, clean hand to me.

"It is not I who is the guilty one here,
You were the one who was silenced by fear,
You feel wronged only wen it is you who must go,
You were the one who let the blood flow."

Down on the hill a guillotine stood,
And on it is I with a thick black hood,
"Woe are the ones who stand on this spot,
And vile are the ones," says I, "who do not."