Come, Sweet Mirabelle

Slick crack,
deep in the wood.
Her oiled frame is built with care
and set with purpose in the square,
a spectacle to see.

Set fast,
descends the sky.
The half moon falls more sharply now,
her silvry light blinding the crowd
to what this means for them.

Stand back.
You could be next.
Monte-à-regret, La Veuve, the end:
it has a dozen names, but friend
by no one it is called.

La dame de mort.
Elle reste là debut du monde
pour raccourcir les têtes de l’homme
grace à les Anciens.

Sing now,
sing once again,
ring out your terror through the land,
and, if not heads, then collect hands
that work to harm the poor.

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