BY DR. AGONSON
What fateful circuits ring above us now
who with our hempen collars wait to fall—
but not to meet the earth—for by this bough
upheld, our necks shall break, and then these all
descend, these cawing devils overhead.
This murder waits on murder for its feast.
What friends will lay out our chthonic bed?
We all are here, the greatest to the least.
Yet I do not repent this company,
nor still, here falter as I’m lifted high,
for if a man is mortal born, can he
for better cause than love and freedom die?
Someday, not crows but angels shall descend;
upheld by these, we’ll find our truer end.
Tale Told 