Hooded shapes dangle from the sky.

The scent of rotting meat fills the air.

(like a hideous perfume)

If one were to chance a glance,

(beneath the hoods of the shadowed shapes)

You'd see the faces of traitors,

(angels)

Bloated and unrecognizable.

People scurry by, heads bowed.

No one wants to see the corpses.

(baking in the sun)

They hang there to this day,

Grisly reminders of the fate of traitors.