|
A tiny child born in a wild land,
A land full of trees and green and wild men.
The daughter of a king,
Highly respected and sheltered
From the hardships of war.
Growing slowly, her beauty
More and more apparent with every passing year.
Cool eyes of grass and soil,
Her hair of fire and a soul to match,
Her parents knew
She wouldn't be contained for long.
A fateful day, she grew up quick
Upon finding she had bled through the sheets
Of her large feather bed.
The linens were purged in a fire,
And replaced with newer, darker ones,
More beautiful than the ones she'd had for years.
She took up sewing and learned to cook,
Taught to run a household
And waited to become a bride.
Her parents thought
They wouldn't have to wait for long
Before the soft eyes
Of a well-meaning man would come,
Asking to make her one of his own,
But they were wrong.
The trials of war,
A country plagued with fire and blood,
No one would come to claim the brazen beauty.
Three years passed until her hand was given.
Three years of toil and lack
Until a ghost of a man with melancholy eyes,
A cracked smile and a sloping back,
Called upon the country's little Honor
And took her for his own.
Everyone rejoiced, except the little girl,
Whose eyes poured tears
As if they were blood spilt
Of a thousand needle-pricks.
He took her to his home,
A place far beneath her station,
A place where war was a pastime
And conquering happened everyday.
The deceitful man conquered the gentle dove,
Batted at her until she wished she would die;
But never once did she bleed from his attacks,
Because they never left her more than bruised.
For many months she never bled,
Giving the man another reason to keep her,
Giving the man a child.
But the baby could not be born in a land of green,
But in a land of gray and sand
|
|