|a sampling of my favorite visual art on dA|
IphigeneiaHer blood made the wind blow.Iphigeneia by PrettyCrazy
Fate made her, as it made so many women before her
and so many after, the youngest daughter of her father.
But which father cares more about soldiers than about his kin?
The men screamed for her blood, the first blood of the war.
Did she love? Did she promise her heart to a boy in the garden,
holding his hand safe between hers, did she gaze his mouth -
too shy to taste it, too bold to look down?
Did she dream? Did she secretly caress the clothes
she wished to wear on the day she would finally
leave the house for that of her husband?
Her blood awoke nature.
Red and hot did it stream on the stairs,
where the rude soldiers were assembled with the leaders
and where they cheered the death of the girl
they had still admired so short ago
and wondered if shed make a good wife.
Her long hair, brushed with great care
had inspired many of them to poems,
more beautiful than the odes they rhymed
on her white throat when it received the dagger,
but less heroic.
CassandraThe misfortune of having eyes which see!Cassandra by PrettyCrazy
However hard it must have been to those who lost their house,
their spouse, their kin and their possessions,
in that long drawn moment of horror,
that one prolonged shriek of terror of the burning town,
how much harder must it have been to them
who knew what was awaiting!
As she had always done.
But never could she have believed
that fate had much worse in store for her –
the capture by the enemy,
the great man with lion manes,
with silver armour capturing the sun
and blinded both her eyes:
the earthy and the unreal.
The capture –
the capture and the long journey,
on foot, walking behind his horse,
seeing the justice in his eyes,
hearing the wisdom in his voice,
the grandness in his posture.
The wishing to die for him-
was it just to be released
from the life of shame and dishonour
or was it really out of love?
|a sampling of my favorite writers on dA|
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