Condemn me. It does not matter. History will absolve me.
—Fidel Castro
The soft peach walls are reminiscent of a hospital.
They complement the aged bloodstains on the floor.
There’s a waiting room here—
The benches resemble pews,
Empty, save for the ghosts of both heroes
And conspirators, their dying hymns.
There is no prayer loud enough to grant
A gentle execution to the condemned.
It’s been decades, but the red blots still blemish the tiles.
A death remains a death.
