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The Jury of the Dead

The Jury of the Dead
Hannah Tilt

He sits under the chestnut tree,
His hood pulled up against cold,
He carries a slip of paper,
That nervously he fold,

He looks around and finds himself,
A world away from home,
He searches the barren landscape,
His hungry eyes that roam,

He knows he cannot win his aim,
But still he presents his case,
Love etched on his skin,
Tears pouring down his face,

“Do not take her – she will not come!”
He pleads upon the jury,
Indifferently they watch,
As the man’s love turns to fury,

“She is but 2 days old!” he cried,
“Surely you have pity?!” said he in rage,
But still they stared merciless,
The scribe scribbling on his page,

They reached a verdict:
“We will take her!” they cried in joy,
“NO!” he screamed,
“YES!” they gasped “OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY!”

And hopelessly the man now stood,
With the paper that he fold,
In front the jury of the dead,
The child he never got to hold.


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