Easter

No one talks of my death,

but I feel it in the room

creeping toward me

like a poisonous fog.

The walls of my cell

close in on me today,

as if I will soon be snuffed out.

It is a day to rejoice,

the day Christ is risen

from the dead.

I wonder if my parents celebrate.

Do they know how I suffer?

Can they find peace

with their daughter behind bars,

pleading for her innocence,

for her life?

I hope the king enjoys this Easter,

feasts in the light of the Lord

for both of us.

I hope he thanks God for his freedom.

I hope he sheds no tears

for La Pucelle.

I cry plenty enough for myself.

I want to be jubilant,

to chirp with the birds

and praise this life.

This may be my final Easter,

my nineteenth year.

I am not ready to die

but want to live fully.

I want to praise God in church

and on the battlefield,

to praise God in all that I do.

I clasp my hands

and pray that God deliver me

from this cell.

I thank Him for his mercy

and trust that He knows best

what shall become of me.