In the next few hours while some of us are asleep, nine souls are going to be tied to a cross and shot. Dead. Amongst them, brothers, sons, husbands, fathers, a daughter and mother.
People will say they did the crime, now do the time. They are going to be doing the time. By paying with the rest of their lives.
Myuran Sukumaran, a reformed man (if only because he was caught), will refuse a head mask. He will be facing his executioners until he can no longer see. Hands and feet bound, there will be nowhere to go.
Nine cheap coffins have been delivered. White coffins to match their white clothes. White clothes with a target sign to mark their heart. Their dying day has already been engraved on a wooden cross to mark their lives.
They know the date, they know the time, they know the manner in which they will die. And now all they have to do is wait. Until their hearts are peppered with bullets. Ten shooters for each soul, three with live ammunition *so that no one knows who fired the final fatal shot*
And those that refuse mercy, will have dinner, and sleep, and live their lives. Perhaps watch with satisfaction the agony of the mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and children left behind. Content with their hearts untouched by bullets, and untouched by mercy too.
Poems and Petals 