Your invitations are Petrashevskys.
Except there is no messenger,
No galloping horse,
To stop the bullets.
When the aims are taken
And the triggers stand ready to be pulled,
The eagles fly over me,
Looking at my long hair
let down by the dead wind.
Then you shout,
Your voice reaching across canyons,
Rivers, abysses, mountains.
There is pain, infinite pain,
Pain impregnating each sinew, each bone.
Do not cry over my dead body.
Illustration by Sanjana Acharya
Article 19 