It was in the cold dungeon and surrounded by the holy
we were chained to the floor, damp to the bone,
breath pressed out by weights piled upon the chest.
We were hung from the stone, forced to drink, drowning.
We spat out our bile, cursed them.
With pure hate, we confessed.
We were placed in the line, a procession of ghouls,
towards the auto-da-fe.
A black sambenito, all serpent and flame.
My fate is the fire, bound to the stake.
The festival unfolds.
I can smell the flesh burning.
I can hear the shrieking and the crackle and the roar of the blaze
over the moaning and the glee of the crowd.
Those screaming men and women ablaze,
with necks that would not be throttled; heretics until the end.