“I loved a man, not a movement,” she said
to the soldiers who found that she shared the man’s bed.
Brave and defiant, she fought as they led
her, the General’s pet, to the General’s shed.
“I loved a man, not a movement,” she read
to the council convened to govern in his stead,
“nor his ambitions. We had plans to wed.
If I’d known of his crimes I’d have certainly fled.”
“I loved a man, not a movement,” she pled
with her hands clasped before her and bright eyes widespread.
She held onto hope even as she tread
to the small wooden block other traitors dyed red.
The short length they marched, the memories sped—
how she ached for his spirit, his body long dead.
“I loved a man, not a movement,” she said,
still it was with a movement a man took her head.