There are those who suffered
more than Christ, who knew death
would be vain; nailed, or skinned,
the Jew by the Assyrian, which
no noble death can atone.
Even now the boy king weeps
in his cell, and all of his fingers
are broken. You know what it is
that makes men mad for the sword,
the rush, of the Arabian horse:
a child is beaten, starved; a moth
has its wings torn off – it is
the hatred of this that impels us
like the wind, a Robespierre
to cut off the head.