She stared directly into the sun! Soon thereafter, she fell ill for a brief period of time. This illness…to her, abstract…obscure. Difficult to witness. Hard to bear.
And, though I struggled with my own sense of reality!
Pain is pain.
Pain is never done.
In my own reality…’who had I been to judge?’
Despondency has been set before my eyes.
As if placed forever.
As if, I wished to cry.
If I were to step away and come back…
Tears would have held the same appeal.
And, a simple thought,
‘No reprise for the meek. Nor the rich. Just a cynical attempt at the god’s wishing us to feel!’
Minus pride,
I gaze upward.
Toward the elusive static that are the fingers of torment.
Arrogant are the attempts to see the obscurities for what…they are.
Nothing but mere intensely formidable, live-in scars.
And, I?
I am nothing but the wick to the flame…burning ever so bright.
Eternally adjusting the delicate balance.
That is my willingness to fight.
Eccentric and silent.
Impasse its tepid talent.
When the unassuming mayhem washes over me.
I am aghast at the deliverance.
How quick pain floods transference.
And,
how militant thoughts become the solid ground…
The only point of resistance.
It does no good to look toward pain for, yet, another day.
It will await me either way.
IT will hold my hand, as it always does.
Making love to me with ITS vicious touch.
I will pay respect to the searing stab, as I always do.
I will allot transgressions…their due.
But I am a proud woman warrior in bohemian clothes.
And, as vague ability diminishes.
So shall my inner strength grow.
Any day,
when the battle between pain and I reunite…
I will go on fighting well into the night.
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I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts
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