So cold the earth beneath our feet
Where we await the final trial
To be passed through the fiery furnace
And cruel lips to spell our fate

It eats deep in our marrow
To behold the scary bloody pulpit
With seats of mighty vultures
Mercilessly seeking weak tunnels
To venge their spites

Their efforts breeds no fruit
The air is tense, seats unsteady
Dripping mouth whispers
We are silent; a peaceful grave
With trembling feet, we all wait

A shrill voice pierces the grave-like silence
“What human injustice; what crimes have we?”
Heads turn, dark questioning eyes roam
We all tremble in total fright

Until a lad aged seven emerged
To answer undauntedly
“What rights have you judges over us?
You were caught doing the same,
Therefore, you all are guilty.
Except me”

------- Author's Notes -------

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