The lady, she sits,
on a cushion of gold.
A chanteuse for sultans-
a muse for the old.

She weaves with her voice,
sorceres history with trills.
She unravels the past,
Charms the wind from the hills.

With her lyre in her hand,
and lyrics on her tongue,
she climbs epic ladders
and tiptoes each rung.

Her song slays the sorrow
of each listening ear.
The girth of her power
grows stronger each year.

At each villain's death
and each hero's deed,
she immortalizes all,
with ink, plants the seed.

So that tale will blossom
so that she can reap,
retell in full glory
for generations to keep.

She sings of the eons
and strums for the ages
She dances for mortals
and poets and sages.

So that all who hear
can know what once was
To know that what happened
and what's done is what does.

04/11/2009

Author's Note: unfinished, needs much polishing...

Posted on 04/12/2009
Copyright © 2024 Melina Raven Maness Diebold