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The Weeping Gallows

By @DrEvaBob

Every morning, 6 am, Friday

Under my toasty blanket, I stir

Gazing at the ceiling, toes tingling

Every morning, 6 am, Friday 

The walk to the row was arduous, pools of time stretched on and on

A wooden voice “Any last words?” 

He sighed, for there were too many a word to speak

Too many a memory to keep alive

He remembered the taste of star fruits

And his son’s childish chuckle 

And the way his mother’s saree glimmered in the sunlight

Sun ! The sun was rising, golden rays streamed in

But light would die soon, with him

The sagging ceiling would become darkness

The dusty toes would tingle one last time

Curled in bed, I was euphoric

Friday, last day of the working week

Friday, last day of his life

Friday, the gallows wept

Always, at 6 am.

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