i live on blood,
they say, i drink it
like good wine.
words trip on my tongue,
they say they
stumble over the guilt
of the murders
accusations
piling on me like honours,
each body another
triumph.
i killed the prisoners
in september,
they say,
and now i dine with aristocrats.
i know what a trial is
now, put me
before the trappings
and call me a dead man.
i know what an end is
now, put me
before the blade
and let the people hear
the fall and thud.
mob around the tumbril
blood on the fields
throw our bodies in the pile
springtime dirt
and let the earth eat us up.
no martyr’s death,
no stoicism.
my head a guilty vessel
to rot.
the revolution sheds no tears,
they say,
swallows its children
one by one.
burning is not answering—
not a problem,
silence me instead.