Vaingloria

Vaingloria, chieftainess imperial Hums a tune of love and springtime lost, For now the seasons of her greying hair is Fall Flecked with harbingers of coming frost. And yet she reminisces of her early years, Courtesan of rare erotic arts, Remembering she left a king and courtiers in tears, Aristocratic, regal broken hearts. And she recalls Zemorda who she couldn’t win, Sorcerer who spent a night with her Of ecstasies, and spells no man should spin, Rousing shapes no man should disinter. Zemorda told Vanigloria, “Vanity Governs petty human hopes and aims.” And sneered at her as she moved temptingly, Cold to her sincerest passion-flames. He left her in the greying phantomed gloom Thick with spirits that he’d raised, Vaingloria, naked in her satin-bedded room, Weeping all alone, unloved, afraid. Zemorda’s ghosts and curses haunt her yet: Poor Vaingloria lives with them as well. An empress who sleeps with tears of old regret Shed for him who slept with her from hell. Vaingloria, empress, attempts to smile, Watching armies with her banners in review. But then the saddest word returns to her the while “Vanity,” and with it pangs and poignancy anew. “Vanity,” Zemora told her—and the necromancer knew.