[Lost poetic verse from the Middle Ages; depicting the siege of Spain. Written by Geraldo de la Torre in 1340 (nearing death); translated by Martin Alvarez in 1922]
I.
The ancient city
Seeps in red
Red liquid
Liquor
Blood.
They are cheering
The enemy
Is defeated
….
We are the enemy
They the victorious
Invaders.
What is there to say?
Our people vanquished
Suffering and falling
To despair.
The stone walls
Rumble
As I sit in this
Cage.
Water bowl
To my left
Food bowl
To my right
Me
In the middle
….
In the middle
Of hell.
I’m wearing rags
Clothes once
Elegant
With bright purples
Luminescent golds
Now
They’re muddy
Bloody
And torn.
The era is that of terror
The Crusades
Have passed us by
We had hope
We had hope
We had hope!
What does that mean
Anymore?
“Hope”
How does it feel
Anymore?
“Hope”
That word rings in
My ears but shrieks
Rattling
Like a snake.
I am Adam
Without
An Eve
I recant
…
There is an
Eve
The Eve
Of mortality
Breaking
A new dawn
A new
Law
&
Order
A new land
Coming
Feasting
Foraging
And
Beating
Its way forward.
II.
It’s nightfall
The day is gone
Just like my city
My kingdom
My people.
I hear
The pillaging
Below
As water
Drips
Drips
And drips.
My mind drifting
Into madness!
Who’s footsteps
Approach!?
Who!?
“It is I,” said
Richard Montague III
“You know my voice.”
“I know thy stench,”
I said.
“What is it you want?
You’ve won. I know it.
The people know it.
Must you be so
Insufferable?”
“I could be much worse,”
He said, holding hot soup.
“Oh, much worse. Here,”
He said placing the soup
Just out of reach.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.”
“Maybe so.”
“I’ve come by
For more than
Just pleasure
And pain.”
“Speak fast,”
I said, “I haven’t
Got all night.”
“Keep up with
The jest for as
Long as you can,”
He said, going
To a table, grabbing
A chalice of wine.
“Since, I am in a
Good mood, I offer
A choice.”
“Oh?” I say, looking
Scanning my squalor.
“I choose here.”
“You haven’t even
Heard my acquisition.
Your mouth and
Rabid emotions.
Are why you are
Here now.”
“Go on, then.”
“You love thy people
Or at least, you do a
Good job at pretending.”
“I — love — my people.”
“Sure.
And the second,
You love thy
Wife.”
“Where is this going?”
“And I know, you love
Thyself ….”
“Two out of three
Are correct.”
“Oh really?
Then why didn’t
You fight alongside
Thy men? Why were
You above the clouds?”
I remained silent.
Coward
Coward
Coward!
“That’s what I thought
‘Lover of the
People’
Now, as I was saying,
I feel like offering you
A chance of
Retribution.
Thy wife
The queen
Is alive
Untouched
I promise.
Thy people
Who’ve fought back
Are imprisoned.
And you,
Are here.
I offer this:
You can save
Thy wife & you,
Thy wife & people
& not thyself.
…
And lastly,
You can save
Thy people & you
But not thy wife.
…
Or, if you choose
Vainly, you can
Choose only thyself.
I don’t expect you
To answer now.
You have till midnight.
Montague left. Not before
Kicking over the soup as
He did. “Oh, foolish me….”
III.
This is the worst of hours
Alive
Alive and imprisoned
No life wholly offered
In these choices
Montague is morbid
Cruel
And should be
The jester
Not the king
Not the winner!
…
But he is.
And I
The loser
What is a king
To do?
With these
“Choices.”
1st
I will suffer
2nd
I will find peace
3rd
I will choose
IV.
The drilling
Drawing
The blinking
Plopping
Of large drops
Of water
Of blood.
A soldier hangs
Upside down
With me
In my cage
One of my men
My best men
My second in charge
He had a wife
A child…
Nevermore.
I want to see my Wife
But
Is it what I deserve?
Is it what I need?
Do I need death?
Do I deserve death?
Yes.
Yes I do.
But is it what I want?
No.
Does it matter what
I want?
No.
Or does it?
Greed is just around
The corner.
Are my choices like
The soup?
Are they even really
For me to choose?
To have?
Or is it just more
Prolonged torture?
Montague
You bastard.
V.
I’ve finally fallen
Asleep.
There isn’t much
Time
But I will surely
Be awoken
I must find rest
For if I to “choose”
…
Rightly.
Dreams are our
Feelings
Desires
And
Hatred.
I dreamed
Of all.
I saw the
Rushing army
From afar
Coming close.
I saw the fear
In the women
Children
And men.
The scattering of
Forces
Strong men
Strong wills
Strong hearts
Ready to die
For their land
Their families
Their lives!
Then
I saw myself
Putting on armor
Readying my blade
My shield
My crowned helmet.
But
I never left the keep
Not even my room
And so I watched
Watched!
As a coward
Sitting next to my
Wife
Without an heir
That I promised
That I wanted
Yet
He or she
Never came
Birth was stunted
I blamed her
…
I don’t deserve her.
I’ll cast myself away
Like a coward should
Like a coward does
By God!
I must make the right
Choice!
The dream turns
Into a haunt
It beckons me
To reconcile
To kill the past
But how?
Is that possible?
Probably not.
A king
Is not supposed
To feel
But how can
We not?
How can
Suppress
Such natural
Occurrences?
We cannot.
Even the greatest
Of Kings
Fail to do so.
They are only
Stone
Because they’ve
Failed
At immortality
They are all dead
I am stone
Now
Cold
Hard
Crumbling.
I rest my eyes
More
Hoping for all
This
To be a dream
A misunderstanding
Between God
Between Heaven
And Earth.
Hell
However
Has found me
Took me in
Left me unfed
Eternally in pain
Lost in refrain
Shattered
Broken
Defeated.
I am ready
To choose.
VI.
Trumpets
Pound
In my ears.
The song of
Peace.
The song of
Resolve.
“King! King! King!”
I hear someone
Shouting.
“Quiet, Montague!”
I yell. “Why do you
Mock me so!”
“King! King! King!”
They shout again.
“Enough, Montague!”
I shout. “Enough!”
In a twirling spin,
The world transforms
Revealing in a flash
As I open my eyes:
My quarters
My wife beside me
Free air
Nighttime
I rise from my bed
Spritely
Look out the window
Stone walls still intact.
“Sire…,” a messenger
Knight says, “it is but
Midnight… you wanted
Me to wake you…. You
Said, you had to sign or
Not sign the treaty with
Montague.”
Ah yes!
Ah yes!
Ah yes!
“Indeed,” I say,
Going over to my
Wife to brush her
Cheek.
“Dear!” I say,
But she does
Not wake.
“Dear!” I say
Again.
Still, she does
Not wake.
Then
She
The bed
The Knight
Turn into ashes.
I fall to my knees
Knowing my fate.
I am kicked awake
Montague….
Then a splash of
Water.
Goddamn….
That bastard
Montague….
I look up
His eyes fixed
On me
Mine
Still struggling
To open
Struggling
To grapple
With reality.
“So….” He said.
“What do you
Choose?”
“Every King,
Should…
But never does
Know when
To pass off their
Crown.
Even when an
Heir
Is present…
We cradle it
Longer than
The child…
Power is our true
Heir
Not love
Not family
Nor virtue
Only
Vanity
…
Vanity
And
Power.
This choice
Has been
A long time
Coming.
I did not need
Till midnight
My greed did
…
Not me.
The greed of
Importance
The greed of
A king.
My heart
Decided when
You gave me
The choice.
But hope
Coupled
With fear
Wished I
Didn’t have to
Choose
But I do.”
“So,
What will it be,
King?”
“I choose….
To save my
Wife
And the people.
I choose to die
On my own accord
And that is now.”
“What if I choose
You to be my
Prisoner?”
“So be it.
So be it.”
“Such
A brave king.
Brave
At the wrong
Time.”
“We are brave
In the time
We deserve.
Time
Is not chosen.”
“I’d say, you’ve
Chosen
Cowardice again,”
Montague said,
Fixing his mustache.
“You could have
Restarted, risen
From the ashes.
Instead
You choose
To run away from
That fate.
I pity you.”
“And I pity no one,
But know, a king’s
Life
Is never forever.
Best to learn that
Now
While pitying me.
You’ve witnessed
A living lesson
A lesson
That will either
Raise
Or
Demolish
Legions.
My game is over
But thy game
Doesn’t have
Much longer
…
Yet
It may seem so.”
“You choose wisdom
As thy time on this
Earth
Is nigh complete?”
“Wisdom is all I have.”
“I will remember thy
‘Wisdom’
As thy head rolls,”
Montague said,
Turning.
“Guards!
Take him away.”
And like that
The life of a king
Gone
Deserted
Destined
For death
Which
Always was.
Epilogue
Let us now
Summarize by
Swallowing
The earth below us
And
Watching
the sky above us.
For, this chronicler
Has lived out their
Life.
Seeing
Many
Kings
&
Queens
Rise and fall.
Even Montague
Who
Battled tuberculosis
Died
Painfully.
Then the queen
Who’s king he killed
Married off to a son
Became queen
Of his kingdom
Watched him die
And
Watched his son die
Too
Finding reign
Once again.
Yet
This scholar
Chronicler of royalty
Hasn’t seen any
Truly impervious
Wholly good
Wholly evil
Wholly right
None
Are
Legendary
Or
Immortal.
They are imprisoned
By servitude
Captured
By power
Chained
By suspicion
Products
Not
People
Stone
Cold
And
Corse
In the wee hours
Of the night
When all is silent
The song
Of Lord Ignacio
Wails
Like howling wind
Screaming
Like a banshee
Crying
Inside
Knowing
They must die.
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