the thirteen hooded figures
choked
out the chanting
through blood flecked
vocal cords
from the cave
overlooking
the now flooded town
exhaustion
should have pulled
each to their knees
the painful rasping
of their voices
should have given out

but as surely
as a tortoise
can fly
or
a tennis ball
can feel freedom
or
the ocean
can forget
where it was

they can continue
no matter the outcome
no matter the pain

the torches around them
dripped fiery pitch
to the worn stone floor
in blueish globs

the wind
drowned out the voices
the intent
still remained