The cry of a raven echoes
across the city square.
Chained and shackled,
they shake in fear, except one.
A figure smaller than the rest,
sat firm awaiting judgement.
Each prisoner given a sole piece of bread:
as their last meal.
They all devour their meager amount,
except the boy.
He offers his stale bread
to the man chained next to him,
“Take it, I won’t be needing it.”
Two guards grab the boy from the iron barred cart,
dragging him along the crooked cobblestone.
The crowd parts way for the party,
    howling vulgar insults as they pass,
spittle flew in every direction.
Some cruel men, torment the boy,
kicking and jabbing him as he passes.
An assortment of rotten food,
is thrown at the innocent youth.
A cabbage strikes the boy’s head,
forcing him to the ground.
He feels a sticky substance,
clinging to his hand when he came to.
    Painstakingly opening his eyes,
he lay in the blood drenched the stones around him,
soaking him in the color sanguine.
Shocked, the boy stumbles to his feet,
    only to kick a human head that rolls off,
into the crowd.
Regaining his composure, he continued,
down the crowded path toward his fate.
The crowd jeeres,
    “Death to the aristo’s,
long live France!”
as the party pushes through the people.
Arriving at the platform,
he wipes his blood stained hands,
on his once elegantly crafted pants,
now torn beyond recognition.
    He looks up at his executioner,
neither daring to show emotion.
The gatekeeper of death, an old man,
grey in both beard and skin,
pulls him up on the platform.
Bringing the young noble before the crowd,
he calls out,
“Another aristocrat of the king,
    his stomach full of food while we starve in the streets.
How does the jury call? Guilty or innocent?”
“Guilty! Death to the nobles!”
the mob shouts unanimously.
Roaring erupts from the crowd.
    The boy is strapped on a wooden table.
His head locked into place, beneath the infamous guillotine,
it’s blade forever stained crimson, by the blood of the French people. 
Rivers of red, run from the podium,
    spears decorated with the heads of nobles surround the platform.
His killer leans in close, only to whisper,
“If you have any last words,
    now’s the time, boy.”
Looking out, over the mass of violent, vulgar people,
the boy shouts one phrase,
“I understand, and do not blame you,
long live the King, long live France!”
    A stunned, silence overcame the crowd,
followed by a renewed uproar of insults.
Tears now running down his cheeks,
the boy notices a dark hooded figure,
standing alone in the crowd before him.
Closing his eyes with a sigh and smile,
    the boy whispers,
“I forgive y-”
With a sickening thud,
the blade slices the air.
    separating head from body, body from soul
The crowd stands, stunned and mortified,
finally realizing the sin they’d just committed.
He was a boy, full of youth and optimism,
not some corrupt politician or a military leader.
Their appetite for blood exhausted,
    the masses slowly dissipate,
returning to their homes, heads hung low in shame.
The podium now empty, the river still ran.
The stream of red runs down, through the square and into the streets,
staining the city streets, a sickening shade of sanguine.
    As darkness steadily overcomes the city,
    with a startling screech,
the cry of a raven echos,
through the barren city streets.