Mavia of the Saracens
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she stood,
staff in hand ...
staring down at the
man kneeling before her -
strands of her hair danced on the
breeze like a stallion's tail ...
cinnamon skin, a stunning contrast to
her brilliant white riding robes ...
sandals strapped in
crisscross up to her knees -
toes and fingers painted to match the
jewel to be given her,
and a wide purple sash marked with her family crest -
a crest that many of her kin
had died protecting.
This ... was her moment, true -
a moment she had been preparing for
her entire life ...
tireless hours and countless trials endured,
spent in the grooming and
educational endeavors -
a lifetime of the artistic, physical, and
intellectual disciplines required ...
the extraordinary skills
needed to lead a country,
and she had taken it as seriously as any that
had come before ...
it was her way, to be the best ...
at everything ...
now, that conviction to
excellence had brought her here, and due
to her father's untimely passing,
much sooner than expected.
His prayer done, the priest
looked up for her winking approval,
then stood, holding the
simple crown in both hands ...
he tenderly placed it -
a single wide, plain gold band with one large
Tanzanite pear, dangling ...
the exquisite violet-blue gem dancing
on her forehead ...
shimmering like the Merelani Hills in
the bright noontime sun -
the shining, resplendent symbol to all
the land, of the binding promise
she thus made:
to be an oasis of prosperity,
benevolence, and peace for all -
the fierce but compassionate ruler of the
desert sands ...
river unto her people ...
queen ...
of the Sahara.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2021
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