Light cold showers,
on the gallows they pour,
while the hangman marches to morbid chores.
Holy waters drown the doer,
and words of the last rites now his lullaby;
‘Neath the grey black skies in their blueish hue,
great arches to his heaven’s stair or the gates of hell,
so shall suit his hearts despair.
The lone horseman opens the door;
Humble in the rain;
Erect is his spine in the downpour of emotions.
Never was a portrait painted,
or a story written in praise,
of the hangman, the lyncher;
Sacrificing sanity for a deed that must be done;
Executing the executioner piece by piece. Wearer of the life skinned mask.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar