The Babe
The Babe
A babe with golden eyes,
dirty knotted hair,
with hunger for a belly,
lies starving,
beneath a marble floor.
Above, amid a swirl of rich brocades,
a blaze of purple and gold,
silver shoes, scarlet stockings, polished boots,
dance in time to dulcet chamber melodies,
immortally composed by dying paupers.
They prance in festive abandon,
a martial air's rhythm fills the crystal hall,
and the tears of tomorrow's children,
are swallowed in the dust.
Copyright © Terence Smith | Year Posted 2023
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