I am The Martyr,
Not Rose, Adelaide,
Heather.
Such names, too sweet,
For what Mr Delaroche
planned for me.
For you, dear gazer!
Oh why, dear Creator?
How do you sketch so
carefully?
Hum and haw as you
choose your palette,
perfecting my plight
with each brush stroke!
I drown!
Why? Why?
How did my youth, my
beauty, my innocence conspire!
Inspire you to such
tyranny?
Free me!
Paint away my bonds!
Dry the water with your
oily rag!
Paint me into safety
like the rest!
Like Le Brun, her own
daughter!
Home again, close to my
hearth and dearest!
Can a child not ask
this of her father?
But I see, it is the
critic's voice alone you listen to.
You paint me dead for
their applause!
I am your Martyr
then,
Bearer of your cursed
halo!
Look at me! You can't
turn away can you?
Not when you tremble
with pride and God's own fervour!
It appears, Gentlemen,
my death serves you both better than my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment