The man in the black hood
Mournful, yet calming, she sang
a song, soothing, whispering on the wind,
soft, sorrowful, soulful,
carrying from her tender lips,
entrancing, lulling all that passed near.
and hard men veiled misted eyes.
They labored under heavy loads
hauling wares and with trudging carts
they inched ever nearer,
nearer the sweet singing
but dared not touch, dared not speak
and kept eyes cast down
away from her, away from her
whose delicate hands grasped iron bars
from whence behind
her angelic face cast no blame.
Flowing hair the color of tearstained hay
wrapped itself around, to cover her shame.
A strand over her brow
curtains innocent countenance
and through the tresses
her voice still coos
to the despairing and the despondent,
the subjects of a princess beloved.
All hearts are darkened, dispirited, broken,
so even the man standing by
with trembling hand on large broadsword
and black hood tucked in his belt,
dreading, lifeless to his task
but knowing that to waver
would only bring another
who might not be as swift,
as accurate, as painless,
and he strains to avert his angry eye
from the court of heavy laden crown
of jewels and scepter which are no treasure
to the wearer like unto his daughter caged below
from which he must choose between
the innocent multitude of his realm.
A decision, a burden, laid upon him
by the robed figure in shadows
who unlike the others
cannot hear the song
but as the servant of a Papal Father
only hears the pulsing blood of promotion
and the jingling of gold coins
in a purse lined with blood and condemnation
of the inhabitants of this Mother Earth
who refuse to embrace his god,
his church and its inquisitions.
He hears not the lay,
the lament of one condemned
for refusing to pay homage,
to worship the idol,
the symbol that hangs from the priests neck,
so now her own is bared,
the delicate smooth neck,
for the swords sharp edge.
Drums roll and soldiers cry,
and a Kings judgment fails.
His paternal heart dies
as whistling sword sings.
Church bells ring.
The clergy man smiles
at the signal of triumph.
Church bells ringing
and his damned soul falls,
to follow the wrong god because
the man under the other black hood
never heard the singing.