The Tower of London
has many hidden rooms
corridors and creepy annexes.
Who knows who has walked them,
taking their last steps before death
awaiting indescribable torture
on racks and hanging chains.
Their cries still haunting,
echoing through
those dark damp cellars.
Only those old rusting
suits of armour
propped up against the dank walls
are there from that time ago
bearing witness
to those centuries gone,
the cries of despair,
weepings of hopelessness.
Written in Courtice, Ontario - September 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem