by John Tustin.
How beautiful you are –
Even with
That chain heavy around your neck
And dolorous eyes
As you walk with quick uncertain steps
Down the main street,
Head bowed and hair in a frenzy of the wind.
The priests come out of the temples,
Rending their ornate garments at the sight of you;
The artisans drop their tools
And pick up paintbrushes, searching
For canvases;
The farmers leave their crops
To come to the town and stare in aroused disbelief;
The fisherman come in early
And ready their nets to ensnare you;
The constabulary lay down their arms before you
In awe and tribute
As you walk on
And on
As I sit at the window in our little home,
Praying that you pass the gauntlet
And still desire
What is before me
As I aggrievedly
Wait
The way that prisoners wait
For clemency.