There she stands across the flames
That curl and caper before our faces.
Her eyes are dark, unreadable now,
For I have sown the seeds of shame.
She bade him stay,
I made him go,
To save us from this awful fall
That she calls
Of night after night.
Locked in her ivory tower,
She speaks in riddles that we cannot comprehend.
Oh mad daughter,
Dreaming of fear and desolation,
Would that you could predict our end.
The pyre shifts and throws up sparks of light
Into the crystal, cold night.
But her soulless eyes never leave my face,
Boring my guilt deeper still, she allows no respite.
I beseech her across the blaze:
I had to send him, I had no choice.
Perhaps he is the sacrifice who us will save.
And there he burns, my son, my babe.
But she does not hear my silent plea.
Rather,
Auguries and omens fill her dark-haired beauty.
She reads the skies,
Draws lines in ash and dust,
Searching for meaning, giving no reasons, but
That it all must.
It simply must.
Wow. The more I explore here.. the more I discover! Again: well done.. Thank the gods for the Interenet!
Hector has always been my hero, my idol, my goal.. The epitome of warrior and of a true man, with honor and ethical values unsurpassed. Sadly, none of which can be found in modern times, in modern man..
Yet again I simply could not resist answering your poem with yet another poem. Unfortunately I run the risk of spoiling your page, but this comment should be hidden (or so I believe anyway).
Please simply delete this if it interferes with the aesthetics of your blog or overrides your own creativity:
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Christopher Marlowe
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
Act V Scene 1:
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here I will dwell, for heaven be in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sacked;
And I will combat with Menelaus
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appeared to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa’s azured arms;
And known but thou shalt be my paramour!
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