Priestess-Queen

Singers' trebled voices rose in a mighty hum,
Virgins proffered you, in the noon day heat,
Glass bowls of roses at your bangled feet,
Bowls gilded with the whitest platinum.
Vassal daughters marched to a beating drum,
Bearing baskets of the finest winter wheat,
All on a scarlet cloth that spanned the street.
They sang your praise until their throats were numb.

There in that throng I hid that I might see
Your regal beauty and your blasphemy.
I know too well how your dark arts once rent
The hearts of puny lords and feckless kings,
And how you wrapped them in your sharp-barbed wings,
'Till all their strength and sanity were spent.

Find more by Michael Fantina in the Author Index.

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