Beryl A. Ouma | + Follow Poet |
Epic | + Fav Poem | Comment | Email | Print |

Golden Trophy of Betrayal

‘I wish for his head, on a silver platter’
Mother whispered to daughter
‘Go dance my love, grant me the golden trophy’

‘I love you, mother,’ confidently
She took to the grand floor
Made it her playfield, a heroin
They were present, among them 
The most respected delegates
Him, the devil, to write on history walls
Her veil, colour of betrayal
Cheered the room, standing ovation

‘Tell us, child, what was the gift?’ 
Politely asked well-pleased father
Her faint smile made her pale
Her eyes smaller
She looked across the room
Had an assurance of a stern motherly nod
Her eyes widened with bold smile

‘It’s Peter’s head, well presented on a silver platter’
The clock stopped for a moment for the loving father
Everyone else was waiting earnestly
Father’s eye fixed on daughter
His face grinned, almost closing his eyes
Fist strong to punch
Hoping that she could advance
Daughter’s head bowed down
She feared for a moment of father’s
Later acts, she was confident, 
Father keeps promises
‘This man was innocent,’
He thought, razing brain ablaze 
‘His life was not to end like this’
‘How can I modify public promise?’
‘Can I disappoint her?’
‘Who could influence this betrayal?’
'This can not be her own,'
‘What have I done?’
He whispered loudly with a stern look at his wife

‘Father,’ she called him faintly
Audience thirsting for the king’s action
‘Father,’ she called again
In lost wonders, he didn't hear the third call
‘Father,’ she shouted

she resurrected him
His eyes watery still gazing at wife
‘Your promise, father?’
She asked with a tender voice
He looked at her princes' well-laid innocence
‘Honour her demand,’ ordered the King
This was a sleeveless errand
Soldiers grabbed him,
Knowing his time has donned on him
He whispered a prayer
‘May this bring glory to your name Lord,
For every opportunity, you gave me, Thank you’

Before he was done, his world came to still peace
His termly spread, as desert-fire
His community distressed, gracefully
His body thrown in the dungeon
Perfectly served wild cat's lunch
His head, the glorious trophy
Presented before the king
Who directed it be given to his princes 

 ‘Mother dear, here is the gift, you so desired for’
She bowed and left the grand
Ashamed, the mother looked at the king
The disappointed king reserved his fury
She gazed fragile at the audience with displeasure
Left hurriedly with her win in both hands
She did not realize the weight she curried 
For it was the lightest gift she ever received
In her heart, she was abased

Please Login to post a comment