The lady lay with whispers hanging in
The silent night. Her broken body sprawled
Upon the ground, the crowd stood un-appalled.
And each supplied the whispers, deep and thin,
That was the mirthful dirge. No violin
Played somber melody; nobody scrawled
An epitaph; the gravestone, grey and bald,
Lay by her body, painted by their sin.

They all were guilty; no one was accused,
For all participated, all felt glee
At raping her frail body. All, amused,
Watched as they tied her to the blossomed tree.

Her blood flowed free upon the springtime ground.
They all departed, free, without a sound.

5 April 2008

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