The Brazen Flower

A rope twisted together large and thick
looms with a crossbeam on a wooden frame,
slightly cut at a length the rabble pick
to hang heretics and their fat fame.

To the skies eyes lifted in a bleak plea,
tears shameful before a narrow view shown,
a haggard, short monk praying on one knee
at noon for those who have swung gales alone.

Sharp as to cut pine wood stretched to its fall,
above keen cowls staring glum lays the steel
still bathed in blood from victims of the wall,
veiled while cut off by mercy not to feel.

Blooms the brazen flower on a cold day
which countless spouts malicious with words spray.