by Nick Gisburne
He’ll die today, but not for faith or hope,
For both were burned before he wore the noose.
He does not preach a sermon from the rope,
Or stir a crowd with cries of bleak abuse.
He stands like those before him, silent, still,
A man without a cause, without a care.
They wait for him to weep. He never will.
His sorrow will not sanctify the air.
No name is now recorded. None survives,
But those who took it could not steal his soul.
They brand such men malevolent, the Fives,
Submission to the state their only goal.
Cold eyes despise the time in every town.
At five o’clock the lever drops him down.
