L’hôtel Criminel, known alliteratively elsewise (always!)
as the Lodge of Lazarus or the Caravansary of Charon,
knew no inhabitant more brutish and ill-mannered than sunlight.
What right claims she, they cried out
Voices vicious and vile
To disrobe dream-decorated slumber.
What court rules she, they cried out
Fables follied and fallen
To condemn Clio-consecrated song.
Curse the one who does not close,
Cast her back, forevermore, into the First Waters of her founding.
And so, in clever plan they gathered:
Magnificent malefactions, corruptors of cruel cut,
United at last behind horizon’s black gate;
And when unknowing twilight emerged
Her honeyed hands they lashed, her happy hair they hacked.
An age passed thus, stolen by shadow.
In time Theia’s blind daughter found again kinship:
The French Blade she married,
With Scythian Arrow she eloped;
But all the wonders of this new world
Could not erase the longing within her blood.
With laughter then she passed,
Bless’ed by the tears of the Tyrant, the wails of the Wicked.