Wanderer
In the fields and
Lanky realms of
Midnight hormones.
Night has come
The marches in the cemeteries
With torches and flambeaux.
A martyr
Slides
With wounds
Down to the floor
Blood
Red
Dripping from
Everywhere
Pity weeps
An assassin with open eyes
Dagger in hand.
My Monsignor.
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