It's cold and unmoving, no sign of a past
Can one deduce, or of the pulse that bound it
Ties broken with all endless earthly affairs
It knows not that soon kindly earth will surround it
An image of an answer to the question of justice
So cold and unmoving:
Her neck, and the noose around it

Her feet in the air, as if to be fleeing
Her gaze seems to stare through the thick veil of time
Her lips turned to stone, she has no more to say
They hanged her, but could not say much for her crime
The men who play God but the devil become
The men:
Whose very souls are encrusted with grime

A rose in the rain, a sylph born of light
Returning to peace and becoming the sleeper
A gleam on her face from a source never seen:
The blade of her keeper- the scythe of the reaper
The night will be cold, but the day will be colder
Her grave:
It will be deep, but innocence's deeper