The Executioner

• Jamila Alam, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2015

The scent of blood in the fresh morning air,
The green grass stained scarlet.
The constant swish of a blade falling down,
Tearing the executioner’s soul with each thud.
Thud, thud, thud,
Rip, rip, rip.
The screams have faded yet the tears have not,
Streaming down faces all around.
Thud, thud, thud,
Drip, drip, drip.
The sun is here, but not for the people,
For the people it is still night
Thud, thud, thud
Black, black, black.