Even on this bitter and cold morn, their is bird song.
The little brook rolls and gurgles and babbles along.
Sunlight, but darkness for me will come before long.
I turn my face to the blue sky, for to air I will belong.
My body is torn, broken, but I stand now so proud.
I am in the hands of my enemies, an invading shroud.
I did not break. I did not give in. I said no name aloud.
I don not feel their eyes, or the angry sniggers of the crowd.
A teetering, improvised gallows, the pull the noose down.
I think of the haunted forests, and family, in my little town.
They offer pardon, they offer relief, if I give names, breakdown.
I say: “You will know their names when they snatch your crown.”
And I hear a bird sing, high and clear in the cold morn.
I know in spring the war will rage, as animals are born.
I close my eyes, I have been strong, my true face so worn.
Drop and snap, darkness claims me, no grace forlorn.