I'd like to think my footsteps echo

off the white stone bridge

but such tranquil sounds overpowered

destroyed

by the dull roar of the arriving crowd

what stone should gleam instead is pale

what was once just, now is ailed

And a piercing shreak of preconceived agony

the sound signaling the justice we seek

Alas the Place de la Concorde runs with red

blood--all we seek after Henry's death

the red we see our fruit of revenge

and round the square where city once slept 

is now where Anguish lies and sorrow kept

I remember not that winter day

but you would agree with what is said

the day democracy was dead