Prologue
Three figures climb
To freedom manacles cut
From walls but still weighted at
Ankles
Hoisted by the hero
Towards shadowy militiamen
Who carry axes unfurl
Unreadable banners
Below men too weak to
Move smell
The nauseous richness of freedom
A single torch in
Hollow darkness is enough
A proclamation
Fisted into their
Side of the bargain
A traitor's scab —
Dispersed in its own hush
The crowd catches the last cool word
Pillowed on congealing silence