...for
Charlotte Corday...
Oh
Charlotte, where do all these sorrows start?
Within
an abbey library’s leisured life?
Or
on the bloody streets of France ‒
the strife
and
fratricide that tear a nation’s heart?
Perhaps
the genesis of Bonaparte
lies
at the point the angel wields her knife ‒
the
justice of the revolution’s wife
that
leads to terror in a tumbrel cart.
You
killed one man to save ten thousand more,
but
those ten thousand damn you with their roar:
they
see you as some avatar of sin,
and
all you see is Marat's devil grin.
The
curtain falls ‒ it's time to walk
away ‒
the
blade cuts deep as bright days fade to grey.
RJT
The Death of Marat - Jacques-Louis David
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