The Last Day
The eyes of the guard
who motioned her forward
told her he’d done this
many times before
behind his peremptory bayonet
his eyes were dead like
an anaesthetic before
the operation from which
she’d not recover
after that, it was merely
a bad dream
the stripping,
the clang of the doors,
the singing. the singing
for death had spoken her already
a small mercy
in a day without mercy
poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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