The
clock is broken, embers crack and hiss,
no
language can interpret what occurs ‒
she
gives a lonely traveller one last kiss,
then
steps into a future that's not hers.
The
war is endless, internecine strife,
nobility's
outsider at its heart ‒
a
friend of kings, but not a kingdom's wife,
a
patron and practitioner of art.
The
bells are silent, rain falls like a shroud
as
Voltaire muses on inequity
which
wears away at beauty, drip by drip.
The
grief of kings is rarely sung aloud,
the
deluge whispers as it meets the sea ‒
"she
will not have good weather for her trip."
RJT
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