Beheading

The moon, a shining scimitar

On a black silk cushion,

Preternaturally large-glowers down

Through night's pall of sorrow.

Pierrot wanders about restlessly

And stares aloft in deadly fear

At the moon, a shining scimitar

On a black silk cushion.

His knees tremble,

He collapses senseless.

He fancies it's already whistling down

In vengeance on his guilty neck,

The moon, the shining scimitar.