My execution night, I overcome
this trial. My eyes red, bleary and tired.

Injustice that shackles the hearts of some,
the Lady’s consolation my pen fired.

What’s left of a man besides what he loves?
Body caged and tormented, yet mind free,
no tyrant’s wrath, pleasure nor mercy’s crumbs
can hide from me truth that is plain to see.

Foolish despair in my Lady’s presence:
body aches, memory lapsed awareness,
idle musing, tongue commits misfeasance,
a life’s learnings expose my heart’s bareness.

Vicissitudes of fortune, in Hell’s swelter,
I, Boethius, my Lady gives shelter.