Before the Firing Squad
Their backs gently touch the wall as
ten broken fingers against cold stone.
Furthest left dips his head to hide the tears
while the rightmost holds his chin high;
defiant and proud. He does not blink.
Iron tunnels end with a rose between each
set of eyes. No hand trembles in the silence
though beads of sweat trail every temple here.
Time has stopped the wind from blowing.
High above a lonely robin cries for love.
Fatal hornets strike true, adorning
the wall in glittering rubies and garnets.
Twenty eyes stare wide open to the sun,
never again to blink away the dreams
that grew behind them for the dawn.