The bright sun stings the blade of the machine.
The crier shouts from high up on his bench,
     “Monsieur Meursault comes forward here
     to answer for the murder he 
     committed, sentenced by the French
     people to die by guillotine,” 
and all assembled strain our necks to see
the prisoner appear.

He exits from the prison, all alone,
no priest behind to follow him to death.
     “Do you have anything to say?”
     the crier asks the distant wraith.
     He only takes a long, deep breath,
     exhaling with a peaceful moan.
We all exhort him, “save yourself, have faith!”
He coldly turns away.

He paces towards the towering device,
and lowering himself down to his knees,
     he bows his head as if in prayer—
     except his hands are tied behind,
     and he will give no whispered pleas,
     nor offer any sacrifice.
The crier cuts the rope.  We all fall blind
beneath the blade’s fell glare.