PRISONERS
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t is strange that I should wantthis sight of your face--we have had so much:at any moment now I may pass,stand near the gate,do not speak--only reach if you can, your facehalf-fronting the passagetoward the light. Fate--God sends this as a mark,a last token that we are not forgot,lost in this turmoil,about to be crushed out,burned or stamped outat best with sudden death. The spearsman who brings thiswill ask for the gold claspyou wear under your coat.I gave all I had left. Press close to the portal,my gate will soon clangand your fellow wretcheswill crowd to the entrance--be first at the gate. Ah beloved, do not speak.I write this in great haste--do not speak,you may yet be released.I am glad enough to departthough I have never tasted lifeas in these last weeks. It is a strange life,patterned in fire and letterson the prison pavement.If I glance upit is written on the walls,it is cut on the floor,it is patterned acrossthe slope of the roof. I am weak--weak--last night if the guardhad left the gate unlockedI could not have ventured to escape,but one thought serves me nowwith strength.
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