Windows like eyes,
like the eyes of my dear brother,
long dead now but still lingering
ever on the periphery of my mind.
The windows like my brother"s gaze
show neither judgement nor sympathy;
they remain objective as I descend
to the hastily-laid block.
The Tower"s eyes have seen much.
Peasants and kings and
God
have watered the grass with their blood.
What is the worth of mine
amongst these great predecessors?
I am simply an old woman
who inherited the death sentence of a madman.
Soon I will join the others
and we will watch from the parapet
the endless death march of the Tower"s victims,
and afterwards,
we will welcome them with open arms.
Cassandra Armstrong is a mother of three living in rural Minnesota. She has been writing poetry and fiction for over 20 years. H
