In Praise of Her Story

Her traits adorn a sedulous stylite
Struggling to regain her precision
The lady is bowing her head
The torch is rising too high

Her roof is leaking
Water drips on an old piano
She can barely keep in tune

The grass has grown knee high
Soldiers surround her estate

The gardener has been given excessive privileges
To implement his policies
And disregard the public heart
Which strains its ends
To tie his hands

The madmen have left their mirrors
And entered the villages
They cannot be told apart
From the monks or the citizens

The anger has left the voices
The heroes have left their shoes

The effusion for our labors
Are ripples in sustained residency
Cast off between her governing
Reduced to a pin-up
With flowers in her hair