The Vines

Twisty turny, in and out
Of the leaves and round about.
Wrap the vines around around;
Carefully, without a  sound.

If the green leaves here should shake
If a twig should snap  or break,
Sam will find me, Sam will see.
Among the green leaves, here hides me.

Samuel runs around, around
Back to the vineyard wall.
Up the wall-bricks, one by one;
Like a spider he crawls.

Up the red brick wall I shin;
Samuel waits outside.
From the red brick wall I walk,
Samuel walks beside.

On the cobbles, on the stones,
But never on the cracks.
Popping grapes into our mouths,
Spitting grape pips back

And forth across the stone path,
Laughing as we go.
Sam, he runs into his house;
I walk on alone

Until I reach my little house,
Where my mother waits.
Baking cakes and cooking stew
On the kitchen grate.

But mother isn’t to be found,
She’s nowhere to be seen.
Four men in black habits instead
Have come home to greet me

With ropes, with knives and a gag
Tied tight across my mouth.
Four hood-men throw me in a bag
And tie it round about.

Through the cloth I hear my mother
Talking soft and low.
“Do you love the devil”  they ask;
Mother answers “no”.

I hear cracks and I hear thwacks,
I hear mother scream.
Like a rabbit inbetween
A hungry fox’s teeth.

I hear mother crying now,
I hear mother moan.
Father isn’t here to help,
Father isn’t home.

I can hear me breathing,
I can hear me cry,
I hear mother saying
That she doesn’t want to die.

I hear a hood-man say to her
“By your actions your are damned:
You lay with the Devil
And to him you shall return

With this child that you spawned
By the meeting of your loins,
With those of the dark angel;
By your son you shall be joined.

For your son’s blood, it is tainted;
His blood abominates.
His heart beats for the Dark One
And a dark path he shall take.

So you will meet your lover,
He his maker, one and same.
God, he shall not mourn you
We act here in his name.”

Rough hands, they come and pull me
From the inside of the sack,
Four men in black hoods hold me;
They tie my hands right back

Behind me and then I look up;
From the rafters I can see
A long thick rope that hangs on down;
Mother looks at me

As she swings from the rope’s end,
Softly side to side.
Bright blood runs down from her arms.
I want to run and hide.

But strong hands come and hold me,
Strong hands they lift me up.
Strong hands that should do good work;
The strong hands of these monks.

I once knew a monk myself,
He tended to the vines.
He was always good to me,
He was always kind.

But these monks show no kindness,
No mercy, nor pity.
Cruelly one of them strikes me;
Through the gag I scream.

The hooded monks, they lift me up,
They lift me way up high,
So I hang beside my mother,
Here to join her, here to die.

For that I know is what they want,
Though I do not know quite why.
For I am just seven years old
And no deadly sins have I

Ever committed, that I know
Nor bad thoughts have I had.
But the hooded men, they do not care;
Everything is going black.

As they wrap a noose around my neck;
The noose bulges my eyes.
This noose is what I swing from,
As mother swings beside.

The hood-men leave by the front door.
The last thing that I see
Is a monk making the sign of the cross
As he looks at me.

Then I know of nothing
And I see nothing at all.
Nothing comes to save me;
Into nothingness I fall.


About andrewday82

My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right. View all posts by andrewday82

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