UPON THE GALLOWS-TREEHanging here, hanging here, upon the gallows-tree, my lumpen legs swaying in the bitter wind—I thirst! O how I thirst! Half way to hell should I be by now, deep in the dark abyss beneath the world...but instead I am becalmed, held fast to my leaden corse, which hangs upon the tree, colder than living flesh could ever be....
* * * *
Why? Why am I not in hell?
Is that the church bell sounding the hour? What hour? How long has it been, since the breath was squeezed from my throat, and the life from my flesh?
Nine...ten...eleven! It lacks an hour of midnight, curse the clawing, bitter wind...it lacks an hour of midnight, when they will come to take my body down, and cut it into quarters, and take my heart to the crossroads, lest my spirit should reawaken in the prison
