written by: David Wagoner
Hands dragging me from my bed.
Servants shouting, Come!
A silent man waits.
The trip through the empty streets.
The room where servants still scrub
the blood from the floor.
That lovely white face.
on the bed post high.
My paints thrust into my hands.
My device to tell the tale,
Two candles– one burning still,
the other cut short and snuffed
The couple parting and together
that woman, in childbirth lost—
Shown always with child,
Remains ever hopeful.
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