Word goes out, and about, around town,
promenading on the square, like the young
and wealthy, bursting with its own self-importance.
Death - it had been decided.
Soon - not months, or weeks, or days, but hours.
Included in the message - now spread like wildfire
to the edges of town, hitching rides to the four corners
on farmers' carts - there will be no appeal.
There will be no reprieve.
Nightfall - when the last kiss of orange-red warmth
disappears behind mountains to the West -
the sentence will carry out.
When that time comes the townsfolk will gather -
the privileged trying to use haughty looks and
pointed sniffs to keep the low-born at some remove -
but in vain, for the people keep coming
and coming
and coming,
and soon silk robes rubs against rough burlap,
perfumed musk intertwines with stable muck -
no one would miss this moment,
so they all press together, now silent,
now perhaps just a touch scared.
And then the Sun is gone.
And then the people get what they came to see.
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