27 December 2012
I pass through the silent crowd Seeing clusters of faces, curiously peeking in the candlelight, Their soft skin glimmering in the yellow flame Their eyes invisible in shadow, Except for the sharp glimmer of white That catches - sometimes - in the light. I search with quietly desperate eyes For the soft cheekbones and kind lips Of your face Framed with gentle waves of fawn hair But I can't find it.
No one says a word, No one points me in your direction No one takes my wrist and leads me to the front, Where, in a beam of cold, silver moonlight You are laid out on a stone table, And draped with a thin, gauzy cloth That glitters in the pooling light. I see you myself, Caught in time, suspended, barely breathing Still as beautiful as by daylight, With your long, blonde hair tangled with moonweed, And your blushed cheeks now glittering and pale
I rush through the unmoving crowd, Which has now clustered around me And scramble onto the platform Tears beading my eyes
You lay out, Almost completely white: Perhaps painted so by the cold light of the moon Perhaps by the beckoning call of heaven Who is turning you, piece by piece Into a fragile angel. Your eyelashes flutter lightly, And for a second, I feel like you might wake And sit up, clutch my arms, Kiss me, But Death has come soon for our leader. I reach forward, and feel the heavy folds Of your skirt, And then clutch your thin, delicate hand Feeling as the last warmth fades away Into nothing more than an old photograph
A heavy red has bloomed around your heart Glistening and oily, And as hard to except as the poppy On a war heroes white gravestone When, as you look around, You see there are thousands more, lined up, Stark and white, but with no blood red poppy. You have been shot on the battlefield: Your white horse no longer bucks Whilst you send silver arrows zipping through the air, Calling out to the gods of the sun to give you strength And the spirits of the air to give you spirit.
As the last breath slips away like steam, I turn to face the expecting crowd, Who, in the hush, Have bowed their heads I force myself to stand tall, And keep the cold breath in me For the battle Is not yet won
Death Of The Leader • Opuss № I