Tricoteuse
Beneath the blade, her final breath draws near,
The knitting needles still within her grasp.
She watched the heads fall, every fateful clasp,
With knitted calm, untainted by the fear.
Her hands, once swift, now tremble, frail and sere,
No thread to guide her, nor a work to grasp.
The cries of vengeance pierce the solemn rasp,
As justice claims the debt she volunteered.
She watched too long, her heart turned cold as stone,
A silent judge who never shed a tear.
Yet justice now does weigh her soul alone,
For all she knit with bloodshed year by year.
Her final stitch: her fate, her threads unspooled,
The guillotine descends, its blade unruled.