Silent Hatred

A perspective at the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots

All around me riots and screaming,
The smell of sweat, the heat of the crowd.
Hatred boils deep inside me.
Slowly she processes up the steps,
Beautiful and calm at the face of a crimson death.

“Kill the French whore!” they all howl around me.
She kneels unflinchingly at the block;
Never has she looked more like a queen.
The drum beat is barely audible
Over the din of the crowd.

I barely flinch at the thud of the blade,
Unable to reveal the grief and rage I feel
At this murder being paraded as justice.
The executioner turns, holding his blade aloft:
“Justice has been served!”