Beheading
Otto Vrieslander
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.