Brooding things upon us, Weights as heavy as the headsman's hands. Brutish and forceful blows befalling, As freedoms become the sentencing. In solace we find only insanity, Inciting fury as bellows upon a fire. Shall whom may we call upon to lure us, And be enticed as from the wicked.
If it is a wound That which brings me down, Let it cut me to my knees, Laying bare my bones of contempt. Let it be wide and gaping, Allowing those who delight In seeing my blood spilled, Their thirst to be quenched.
May the wound be deep And allow my blood to spew. Pouring forth from live and coursing veins, To drench those who cry for my end.
These very veins, Through which life surged so brilliant, Crimson as the liquid there within, May they now pulse silent As my breath stills.
Let the blow which takes me down Be harsh and be it swift. And if it is so I shall receive it, As if slain by a warrior Who was well versed in death.
But let it be known For if it is he, the coward Who slays me, He who tears me down Without looking into my eyes.
Let it be known He is fearful And not worthy To spill my blood Upon our ground.
But do not fret, And know I will not worry. For there is not a grave Which is too shallow, Nor a pit too deep, To contain my life within.
You may burn me or bury me, Or ditch my body into the sea. If you are the true coward, I will see you on the other side With a caldron for your bones.