The hangman weeps. He kneels and begs
forgiveness of your shoes. OK,
OK, you nod, and your headbag's
spice, its tropical jute bouquet,
grows subtler, like some wine you are
adrift in. This the hangman frantically
understands, and everyone here,
in sunlight and authentically
ash-blackened sackcloth, deeply feels.
Now we lay us down to dream
those cold colorful subsoils
your face must crumble and become,
and now the hangman's drying his eyes
on the soft rag of the noose.
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