The execution

The women fell upon the bodies of the dead, clearing blindfolds for one last look upon their face. Shot, against a carmine wall, no matter how they pled. So now they mourn them through a veil of blackened lace. A mother presses lips upon a virgin son; a bride, in bloodstained white, whispers; she is to be; a sister screams, at smoking guns, what have you done? A Captain brushes some cigar ash from his knee.