Marusvar; A Collection of Poetry

[Eryane 3698]

MARUSVAR 

A Collection of Poetry written by Lady Milena of Woldzmir

 

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“I do not regret it, never. I’ve no regrets but one– Not of where I am now… I only regret the words left unsaid.” 

 

The rose of Reza; daughter, duchess, mother– Princess Mariya Angelika. Her legacy is preserved in history through her innumerable writings of forlorn, within which she poured impassioned written words like no other, only equivalent to the preeminent diaries of Lorina Carrion. A certain candidness lies behind each stroke of the pen, relaying the sentiments of her lonesome strife, yet her once-covert letters may find resemblances and reflections accordingly to our own grievances of present time. 

 

Blackwing 

“Oh, sweet child,”

Cooed she to her infant daughter

And with her laughter the mother smiled,

For she was all the joy of the world. 

Yet behind her lurked a darkness that she could not see,

A raven watching from a cypress tree. 

 

“Mama!” Cried the girl, now of age one,

Dressed in fine red fabrics and atop a tiara. 

The mother’s lips upturned to smile like the sun,

“Oh, Marius! Her first words!” The woman called, 

Yet over her shoulder there was no one there,

But a lonesome raven in the distance with a chilling stare.

 

“My beautiful girl,”

Uttered she to her growing daughter,

And pinned upon her a necklace of pearls. 

Now two years of age, and nearing three,

And too young was her daughter to see

The sweet tale that was to become a tragedy. 

 

Screams rang through the palace walls. 

“Wake up!” the princess wailed at only three,

And a hundred nurses and attendants rushed through the halls.

For it was only in her mother’s tender embrace she longed to be.

And while the cold figure of the woman tantalized, 

A hundred black ravens perched on the cypress tree, with prudent eyes.

 

Watch, the Soldiers March

Raised was she in a war of body and mind, 

Ever a childhood lost in time. 

Behind the palace walls, there was a thunder she could hear 

As the soldiers tread prolonged for as far as one could peer. 

Many waved their flags high, 

Raising black and yellow banners to the sky. 

“Watch, the soldiers march,” one cheered.

Off to war they went. 

 

With father gone to the field, 

There was a lonesomeness she concealed.

Yet to her luck, she befriended a few, 

But when they were gone the further she withdrew. 

Few waved their flags high,

Raising bloodied banners to the sky. 

“Watch, the soldiers march,” one whispered.

Off to the skies they went. 

 

The city once bustling of life

Could not have been more divulged in strife. 

An arrow struck the king from afar but true,

But now her father was gone like the soldiers too. 

One waved a flag high,

For the king, in the sky. 

“Watch, the soldiers march,” one wailed. 

Off to the cathedral they went. 

 

At River’s Edge

Skipping stones across the shimmering lake,

Laughing, playing, without a thought of time.

Too young we were to glimpse what was at stake,

Indulged in ignorance of the sublime.

 

A decade past or perhaps it was two,

Years elapsed so dreadfully without you.

 

I traipsed the church aisle donning gown pure white

To the man, a stranger, at the altar.

Dismal was I without you in my sight,

Yet in my duty I would not falter.

 

And frequently it crossed my troubled mind

If our quixotic tryst had been ill timed.

 

The years passed and our care was lost adrift,

Though sojourned I the river's wistful edge,

Daydreaming of all you and I had wished–

Of the forgotten times and care we pledged.

 

Although you were no longer by my side,

I tossed a pebble forth across the tide.

 

The Canals of Helena

Below ornate metal railing withholding her so,

The woman eyed the tumultuous icy waters down below. 

The canals of Helena, alluring were they,

For the currents would free her from the fray. 

 

A young girl approached no older than eight,

Proffering a skipping rock and donning features elate. 

“Take this, please, and remember me.”

Then the youth hurried away in an impetuous flee. 

 

Alone she was, without respite to her destructive deliberation,

Enraptured by the city irrigations and endowed by personal intoxications

For alone was she in spite of the innumerable passerby,

None of which could catch the woman’s forlorn eye.

 

A woman approached no older than twenty-nine,

Proffering a white veil and four springs of fresh thyme. 

“Take this, please, and remember me.” 

Then the lady made haste farther than she could see.

 

Vexed by the indulgence of her innermost tribulations,

She dove further into her self aggravations

And clutched the rail ‘til her knuckles grew white.

A mother, a wife– none of which would hinder her internal plight. 

 

A widow approached no older than thirty-four,

Proffering a silken reddened and gold dress of regal glamour.

“Take this, please, and remember me.”

Then the madam departed without any plea.

 

A pebble, veil, thyme, and coronation gown

Brought nothing for the loneliness in spite of all who were around;

All but a reminder of who she was and was meant to be,

For evermore condemned to solitary she could foresee.

 

She skipped the pebble and adorned the veil

Clambering to the height of the rail. 

Behind her was the dress and the thyme,

“Pieces of me no longer mine.”

 

The watery flow of the canals were enchanting below, 

Enticing, alluring; and inviting her to let go. 

 

Unhatched

Three mother crows settled amidst the trees,

Seeking proper nests for their families.

 

Two swiftly mustered their simplistic homes,

While the third labored without certain end.

 

With the sweetness of spring the chicks emerged,

For the first two, yet lacking was the third.  

 

Confused was she, with her nest most refined,

And not of brisk, conventional design.

With observant eye she beheld the two,

Yet even with keen regard was she blind.

 

Strangely so, the crow's chicks remain unhatched,

Thus leaving her, galled, disquieted, to fret 

Over maternal talents that she lacked.

For how could those of her own be detached?

 

Toiled did she at break of the dawn's first light,

Warming her nest again with sticks and twigs.

Alone she further assembled her home,

Perfecting it, 'til the day set to night. 

 

Soon neared the end of the yearly springtide

Leaving the mother with a wounded pride.

 

Dotingly, the crows looked to their mothers,

While she retained distance from the others.

 

Was it an innate strength she couldn't conjure?

Such was a query she'd ever ponder.

Be That of Queens 

Not a sound rang in the desolate halls,

As Mariya passed by the crystalline walls.

Alongside her were paintings of the past,

Portraits of her kindred, her children last.

 

Of Valera, of Vladrick, of Joseph,

Yet in her sights was a single focus–

A grandeur throne, protruding above all,

That called to her at the end of the hall. 

 

Dressed in her ornate coronation gown, 

She sought to at long last don the gold crown. 

Yet swiftly were all the odds stripped away–

Left was she to keep her mourning at bay.

 

Be that of Queens who never were to reign,

Whose luck halted their chances to attain. 

For the talons of greatness neared her so,

Yet fate opted against the lady crow. 

 

And although her time has since been long-gone,

Through her son shall her legacy live on. 

 

 

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Spoiler

 

Thanks to everyone who checked over these poems and helped me out! (Nectorist, Julius, Andrew, Archie, Ivory, and GMRO).

The Writings of Mariya Barbanov

 

Music Links:

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qOGVj_s3Bo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcdO9UP0hp8

 

[JoanOfArc 4604]

Dima smiled from the Seven Skies as he watched his best friend and sister continue to make excellent poems among other works. He thought this set of poems were much better than poem about a withering rose she showed him years ago that were filled with such melancholy. Soon, he thought to himself, I will see you again my beloved sister and we we will write poems about the heavens and of God for the rest of eternity.

[drowknows 696]

"These are so beautifully written.." The Cardinal Pelagius-Albarosa would say as he eyes down the poems with a beam of satisfaction.

[Nectorist 12875]

Sigismund, knowing little of the art of poetry, and not much more of the nuances of history, gives his sister's work a cursory glance. The weary man, far too exhausted for life, takes some peaceful solace in the beauty of what he reads, even if to him they are just words.

[ARCHITECUS 4788]

“Wonderful poetry, but I‘m more of an economist myself,“ mentions J. Fitzpeter to Charles ‘Chuck‘ Galbraith at Café Milano.

[Ivoreyy 2303]

1 hour ago, Eryane said:

Be that of Queens who never were to reign,

Whose luck halted their chances to attain. 

For the talons of greatness neared her so,

Yet fate opted against the lady crow. 

 

And although her time has since been long-gone,

Through her son shall her legacy live on. 

 

From wherever she now rested, Mariya Angelika of Reza looked down upon a young Milena - a girl who shared the namesake of the woman closest to Mariya within her lifetime, but now furthest from her within her death. These poems, though mere recreations by a girl who never truly saw that time, offered an insight into the mind of a woman torn between the various choices of her ultimately short life.

 

"Be that of Queens who were never to reign"  she recited the first line of the final stanza of the poem to the man beside her. "Do you think us cursed? I certainly do. I should only hope that this young one finds much more satisfaction within her life than I ever did. I fear that her name and lineage is damned - the lot of them."

[Lhindir_ 3691]

Ostromir applauds his favorite daughter.