Listen to poem:
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.
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