Pierre Petit

The little poet
Had some unfinished
Poems on his table,

Just drafts, when a draft
Of wind blew a few
Out of the window

To the street below,
Where a passing priest
Caught them and scanned them

And, in a minute,
Declared heresy
Immediately,

Saying the poet
Ought to be dead. So,
The poet was killed.

Note it was a priest,
A countryman, one
Who spoke the same tongue,

Not an enemy,
An invader, not
A god or machine,

Not artificial
Intelligence. No.
Just someone local

Who didn’t care for
What he read, who had
The power to make

Good on his demand
That his countryman
Deserved to be dead.