photo/ willow/ magpietales
I hope the window I stand before in dreams,
finally opens and lets the sparrow out.
Tomorrow I will lose my certain touch,
eyes that could kiss,
my taste for wine,
and the velvet skin brushed lightly
by he who gives my name to myth forever.
Black light, a dim glow that seems to be rain,
runs down the walls.
I hope that God grants me my wish
to hold my eyes open.
I will become a rivulet of red.
But I'll keep my eyes open.
I beg the executioner
to say I never closed them.
I pray that courage eats my fear,
so I may watch my ebbing soul.
The sparrow flies out the window.
Who stands there?
Who is that who stretches arms out to me
and whispers so low that I have to walk closer?
Come here, child, she says, walk with me.
I have a prize to show.
She leans over a headstone,
brushes leaves and tiny spiders,
spinning across the open eyes of memory.
Forever the sandstone head of a girl amazed.
Eyes open and waiting,
and a gasp that never makes a sound.
If I should die before I wake?
Am I awake before I die?
Born 1501-1507? Died May 19, 1536/ Tower of London
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