by Nick Gisburne
He knows it was a wanton, wicked crime,
But lifts a middle finger to the court.
However harsh the penalty, the time
Is worth it, for the pleasure, for the sport.
He’d burn those filthy documents again,
The treaties signing everything away.
A race of noble, honourable men,
And them... what else could make such monsters pay?
Historical and precious? Never. No.
A thousand broken promises, destroyed.
How beautiful the bonfire in the snow,
The swirling ashes, dancing in the void.
They ask him for a murmur of remorse.
Another finger joins the first, with force.
