I was hanged that day for reasons I no longer prefer to disclose. I bit my lip at the chief's marker; holding his hand up, signaling the gripper, his grey coat's sleeve running up short revealing a naked wrist. There stood a man at my side and another behind, kneeling at my stool in which I stood, keeping me from death. The morning was freezing in the garden, like an old winter from a couple of years ago. I walked in my mother's hand as a child in this very same meadow, looking up at a straight branch that accommodated plump, jostling birds at nest, the same branch that now tethered a thick rope that hung down around my neck, still loose, waiting to strangle me. A chill ran down my whole being; my sentence drawing closer to its hour. My eyes wandered, striking every corner. Beams had dug through a cloud and had hit my brow. I winced as a wind brushed by, waving my clothes, thin and ravaged, like a dirty flag. It was regretful that I didn't take pleasures in such sights as the one before me that day. It was regretful that I did not smile at purple clouds or magenta skies. It was regretful that I could not sigh at the very wonderment of nature that tore at peoples' souls slowly, like a drop of liquid dripping down a glass. Perhaps that was why I was to be hanged. Nevertheless, my knees shook, my wrists twisted, bounded in the back by rusty cuffs, locked likewise around my ankles.