Assassination Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The sentry stood, alone
surrounded by cold wind
and demons of his fears
when, silently it climbed
invisible to even God.
A lightning flash of steel
reflecting the small sliver
of a Swedish moon,
and briefly came the thought
that it would be tonight,
the day of one called Quisling.
There never is a sound
when steel is thrust with force
into the renal calyces
unable to respond, to shout
by overwhelming pain
he slumps while hugging
and clings as if in love
to his assassin now,
who twists the blade but twice
a mini Harakiri, it seems,
but hold the thought for now,
he sees sheer terror
in those dying eyes, so young
and blue, an Aryan he must be,
and thus, he hurries with his knife
extracts it with a grunt
and shows its crimson steel
before he slices in slow motion
his throat, from ear to screaming ear.
And then he nods, it pleases him
that none of this was missed
by crying eyes the colour of the sky.