Olivia spent four hours a day ignoring her huff,
she stitched her dress by hand since there was no sewing machine;
why did she choose a green color to honor a monarchic regime,
or was it undying hope to sustain her lonely life?
Her sweetheart had gone to invade Russia expecting delusion;
was Napoleon Bonaparte to blame for her sorrow and trepidation?
Would Philippe return to France and marry her in Notre Dame's Cathedral at daybreak?
Would she wear her laced green dress even though he would die in a violent snowdrift?
Olivia stitched and stared at The Arch of Triumph from her wide window,
dreaming of seeing her sweetheart walk beneath it with that soldier's pride,
making all Parisians hail him as their hero as every cathedral's bell would chime...
she would be the happiest belle wearing that green dress in the crowds below.
Only one hundred thousands soldiers returned to France, many died on Russian soil:
tattered, deluded and defeated, they crossed the Seine River without a chant...
Napoleon's imperial plan had failed: heart-wrenching was the death toll;
Olivia's face was drenched in desperate tears...imagine her discontent!
Categories:
monarchic, hope, love, passion, war,
Form: Rhyme