Awake at dawn, with almond eyes,

The queen is seated on her throne;

Confronted, under leaden skies

With prospects of a life alone.

 

The taste of young and tender shoots

Was too soon soured by the storm,

And crushed by soles of marching boots

Which flaunt their predatory form.

 

In some far field his buried feet,

Anonymous, lie, like the rest.

The one who made her life complete

Cannot be brought home to be blessed.

 

In finery, she prowls around,

While thirsting for departed love.

Her anguished voice emits a sound

Which resonates through floors above.

 

When, from afar, we hear her cries

Inside the gilded, darkened hall,

We try our best to sympathise,

From on the wrong side of the wall.

 

Although reality takes aim

And destiny fills up the shelf,

Her sultry grief still seeks to claim

A life together, by herself.