Original Omens
A street-side seer summons truth.
We knew our king was not a king: he was
a laughing man, a jester. He played tricks
like tongue-juggling and side-winking
at enemy ships. Politicks, he confided his
Queen, a somber woman.
She slept in separate quarters.
Was the King wise for flapping his tongue?
Who would he be, to hold his thoughts hostage?
In freedom, we believed. But
When the
castle crumbled
like dried pig fat
When the
revolutionaries rose and pierced
the castle and roasted
the men inside, they say they found
the King kneeling — kneeling!
Oh, crystal ball, oh sphere of ill
omen, cursed by a hagwitch to show no lie,
tell us:
Did the King speak under sword point?
Did he bravely defend his crown?
Did he resign himself to a glorious beheading,
a beheading befitting a King?
Or was he silent as the grave?
