Thrice
AN: Based on both the original Shakespeare play and the 2004 film version.
Three lives tremble on the keen edge of that blade
Held, wavering, in the iron fist of the Jew
Who stands, hunched, monstrous, defiant
Before the horrified eyes of the court
His fingers are slick and slippery with sweat
On the hilt of the knife; his old-man's hands
White-knuckled, his eyes hard, flinty
Darkened by something beyond their comprehension
The dying staccato of breath will reaffirm his existence
And his twisted mouth spits his ugly words like stones
As he rocks back on the balls of his feet
Racked by shivering and by the very weight
Of the raw passions that sweep his small form
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Three candles flicker across the room
Their light plays over the gaunt face of the bound man
Who sits, enthroned, in sacrificial glory - it burnishes
The beaded sweat glistening on his bowed head
And throws the shadows beneath his eyes
Into sharp relief. O brave Christian martyr
Who turns his cheek and wordlessly, patiently
Accepts his fate with long-suffering sighs
Or perhaps not so selfless, so pure a sacrifice
To die for the sake of a boy; yes, before the eyes
Of his white-faced young beloved – ah, sweet sin –
And by the hand of a broken Judas, for a tainted love
Whose bony fingers dig into his shoulder like knives
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Three times one thousand is the price
Of original sin – and this is well known to the boy
Who stands frozen, helpless, numb, his eyes fixed
On the gold cross on its fine chain glittering
Against the gleaming marble of the offered flesh
He remembers the thin mewl of his own voice
Asking for more, and considers the perfect opposites
Two sides to the same coin bound by a perfect hatred
That loathes the other for its resemblance to itself…
The Jew would not take the money. The young man weeps
Silently, perhaps beginning to understand that
Some things, dear boy, run deeper – still waters,
And blood is thicker than even that, a bitter draught to take
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Three hearts held in perfect balance
The court watches, breathless, unblinking
Silent in the face of this, something primal,
Ancient - the sick mob-spirit that is at once appalled
And yet almost unbearably aroused
By the promise of bloodshed
The Jew's knife flashes, catching the last of the dying light
As it slices through the air, hissing
And down
down
down
The bright blade falls.