One day the executioner will shed his cloak

and reveal that he

is me.

On that day, I will smile,

and he should smile back.

As he swings his ax,

and we both know he must,

I will be a chestnut tree.

With each blow

I will recount the years. And

through the years,

in every moment,

between every swing,

I will see the same hooded figure.

Not guiding me, not hiding

only waiting.

As the tree falls,

and the final blow lands,

our smiles become cemented.

A chestnut falls, and none should weep.

A chestnut falls, and its smile lives on.

100 years and the chestnut rises again,

waiting, again,

for the executioner to lift his hood.