Knowing someone else had gone instead,
we hid, dreading the snow’s blunt precision,
its indifferent languor. Lacking strength and vision,
we led you here, watched as justice bled
into the river, called it “God’s Incision,”
but did not offer thanks our foes were dead.
What hangs around your neck will not take wing.
The sky’s clenched fist heralds a new regime.