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."