by Nick Gisburne
The Quintocrats of Justice take their seats,
Despite the dismal pleadings of the town.
Already, from the filth-infested streets,
All symbols of dissent are taken down.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the ceiling 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.
