#140
The job is done, the murder weapon stashed;
A beautiful young woman bashed or slashed.
Wait! What was the victrola playing all along?
The killer and his captors listen intently,
Moved to inaction by a simple song
A woman sings with soft intensity,
As if her passion could efface a wrong
Perpetrated with mountainous cruelty.
Will a club and a net be sufficient
To subdue the heartless secret agent?
The song is over, yet they hesitate.
Three observers, representing the State,
All alike, unblinkingly accuse us
Of the action's interminable caesuras.
There is nothing for us to do but wait.
