A Hanging Tale

Your hands tremble,
when you accept-
the cup of hemlock.

Not like Socrates,
who described the ascending bane
paralyzingly.

Art of letting it go-
was inherent. Exogamy.
The root population grows.

I have come to take
your hand, O death,
out of caste.

You tell me,
it was out of turn,
to stitch the black wound.

The howling was persistent-
Moon was not yet sighted.