Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
But what am I guilty of?
Surely it couldn’t be spreading religion,
Or spreading the thought of love.
“But guilty that he is!”
Voices echoing in the room.
“Guilty of going against Rome’s rule,
Marrying young love’s bloom.”
Guilty roared one last time.
And there I stood dumbstruck.
I allowed them to drag me away haughtily,
As if I were just a dead buck.
In a dark, cold dungeon,
Blood occupied all the floors.
The walls were decorated with instruments of death.
And Iron bars for windows on every door.
Guily. Guilty. Guilty.
Guilty I was thereof.
Guilty of spreading religion,
And spreading the thought of love.