A poor roman whose blood spilled,
Far from the homeland of patrician
Is how I feel currently.

As wounded as I currently am
By the grins little devils address to me
I chant glories of my torturers as they ax me down

What are they going to do with my bones. Would they sport it as jewelry,  closer to their hearts?
What are they going to do with my flesh? Have a relish on it?

What if I was destined to be a prey, not even taking a glimpse of your love by any other mean than pain...

Can I still envision it as some sort of gain, with it being the price of my very life
And so, my very dignity, or I shall say the remnants of it, are defunct along with me