Ștefana Maria Diaconu participates in the Poetry Contest of the Festival 4 Arts, from București, România. We wish her success and thank her!
The crown is rusty, old and dead Yes shining gold upon his head, His throne is high, barren and cold Draped in dreams of wealth and gold. He walks the halls that once were grand, He sees the vastness of his land He doesn’t see the bloody pyre, The corpses eaten by the fire. His rags feel like spider silk The coal – marble white as milk He dreams of faerie dance and love, He feels a hand where there is glove. The empty crops no longer die, He cannot hear the children cry And in the dark the faeries sing, Long shall live the Crooked King.
It starts small, like most wicked things A breath out of place, a space between blinks it settles, it festers, it grows Rough requiems from crowded crows. Some are spared with false disguise, Some succumb to wicked lies, Ignore the poison in their lungs Spore and spread until it numbs. For some is too late to fight their death, Lives stolen in under a breath Passing quietly with frozen heart, Six feet beneath and six feet apart. The safety has lowered and so did the fear, We all forget how the virus is near.
Morning haze, it’s 6 AM In the subway people cram Blurry eyes and sleepy gait All they have to do is wait. From a maze of stone and steel A machine that cannot feel Lights the way of time in need With blaring sounds and wicked speed. Metal snake rattles at last People now and people past Walk inside but mind the gap Before the wicked doors can snap. For if you fall, you won’t be saved The ancient tracks are not behaved You’ll be eaten with a screech Out of sight and out of reach. Many choose to purposefully ignore The pain in sight, the death before It’s easy to let yourself be lied To forget the world outside But heed my words, for they are few Old as age, they are not new Mind your steps and raise your gaze Or flesh will decorate the maze. For this fate will spare you not Stuck between the steel and rot But the memory remains Under the wheels of wicked trains.
Tell me, Tiger…
Tell me, tiger, do you like your crown? It’s stiff and cold From stolen gold, And jewels up and down. Tell me, traitor, do you like your cape? It’s long and red, From bloody thread And teeth for you to drape. Tell me, Lordling, do you like your land? With crops of bones, And towns of stones It’s yours to command. Tell me children, do you know your kin? They set the fire, Toorched the Empire To fester in their sin. Tell me, daughter, have you heard of war? It’s red and white, and lasts the night, But for you no more.