The crowds sang her fate

50 philosophers, she converted-

But not one, would share her estate

She stood, keeping her eyes on God

Her limbs, wrought in iron wheels

Twisting, scraping, breaking her form

Yet her face revealed-

Only the slightest discomfort

The wheels, knowing their blasphemour task-

Shattered. Leaking the bloody essence

Of the one asked-

To carry out her sentence

With an impatient thud,

An ax ripped her soul in twain.

Her heart pumping, a milky white flood,

That hallowed the ground