Dawn in the month of February
I walk uncertain
what lies ahead
A leaf, I say,
doesn’t move without
the will of the Creator;
Zamora’s gone mad,
Burgos rages.
I smiled to bless
the children who
kneel on my path.
145 years hence
and people remember
the man who walks
calmly to his death.
The curse of tyrants it is
to be the heroes of newspapers
but the evil men of memory.
Poor victims who suffer
their names be whispered fondly.
So, walk sweet Leila,
Today, you go to jail;
Forever, the best seat in history!
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