water lilies interwoven with
your mahogany hair,
white in skin and dress and crown
you lie, a watery last smile
on periwinkle-shaded lips,
your left hand clutching poppies
and your right a branch of willow
from the tree aslant the brook

no mortal coil will trouble
from now on your sleep,
sweet maiden nevermore…
for sleep it is – a definite
and dreamless rest
from madness, men and child –
that you have chosen,
bidding farewell, desperate
and hurting and with rues

so tired of soliloquies,
of murder and deceptive acts,
of others telling you
what you should be and who,
unwilling to find shelter
in a convent and unable
to escape a man’s embrace
unsullied, you became aware
your only say was to say no

your love, although a woman’s,
turned out less brief than
your existence

some are weeping now, some
scattering sweet roses to the sweet,
and some continue vengeful killings;
but the only one who knows is you,
your secret cancelled by a graceful herb
you chewed before you joined
the icy brook, your final bed…

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