174: Tragedies Transplanted

They murmur over tea

that he died with six words, "A plague on both your houses,"

falling from his wound (a sword had pierced him through),

and they whisper into the shadows that one death

demanded another.

But what they refuse to mention

is that history played out

like red leaves swirling to the ground

with rain and thunder brimming near,

and that the peacemaker's heart burned bright

with love (and shame imposed)

for one the historians would have named his friend (but historians

so seldom see the truth in these matters).

He might have knelt and he might have prayed

but his holy symbol was a green carnation painted red

and autumn came

and autumn passed

and he might have learned to speak with another's heart

but the imprint of the first was chiselled

on his heartstrings, like elegant cobwebs tucked into the dark,

and with every sigh and every laugh he cried, "Good night, sweet prince,"

so when he found her, dead and fainted,

he welcomed a single drop's oblivion

to hold both their hands in his.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.