...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.
The Death of Marat - Jacques-Louis David