On such a day as executions fall,
A day to freeze the life from beating hearts
And, leering, turn to find the sacred soul,
There on ground as cold and black as sin
Two tiny puddles, oval, silver, mute.
With stares unblinking, guileless as a child
Regarding skies so lowering, baggy eyed
As makes of Armageddon sombre sport.
For since the child sees all there is to see
And cannot turn its gaze from good or bad
Since all it sees is seen in turn by God,
Then shall our children guide the hangmans hand.
For man, made father, taking child from mate,
So does she hand him his unbending fate.