The art of the second was born of need:

to sever the head—let it descend

to the retainer’s lap with proper speed

still hitched to the flesh it must transcend,

a newborn’s tether, pale and stubborn, caught

between what leaves and what refuses still.

Mercy and taste: the blade that answers thought,

the practiced hand that sanctifies the skill.

One final stroke to staunch a benediction

or to close the mouth before it speaks in vain—

and spare the watchers any fleck of sin;

the blood directed to a higher plane.

The breath revoked, the body’s work undone—

the tether breaks. There is no resurrection.