17 August 2012
Every mark upon my wrist, Shows where chains have cut, The chafing of an age-old rope, Wasting where we're put.
No one there to hear our shrieks, A truly laboured past, The lies which keep us in our cells, Mutinies not meant to last.
Left inside a rotting cell, Until our times are called, Our deaths strung out, a cruel thing, We wish they were not stalled.
Accused of what is 'witchery', Yet I am not a witch, But even though I tell you true, My corpse still in a ditch.
As much a human as yourself, Yet hear I am: all chained, I simply think you're scared of new, And so we're kept restrained.
The Salem 'Witches'. • Opuss № I