by Nick Gisburne
The Quintocrats of Justice leave their seats
To rise above the rumbles of the crowd.
Already, in these filth-infested streets,
Resentment and revolt are voiced aloud.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the scaffold where it swings.
In manacles and chains, his tender age
Means nothing to the darkness judgment brings.
The figure at the centre of the five
Removes the crimson gauntlets from his hands,
And whispers that the boy will not survive
To see another sunrise in these lands.
Too numb to watch him dragged away to die,
The Quintocrat, his father, turns to cry.
