Red coloured ivies, this raw poisoned vine,
A life’s full of niceties that mocks the blind.
Oh, lips that burst open and blood dripping cold
Wished I was never so close to the door;
Misery’s silent when minds lost, they loathe.
Mid-winter, blue coat and two trembling hands
Chop pieces of wood not to freeze in pain
As ladies are waiting inside worshipping,
Embroidery, love-thread, a lily in gold;
Yet no fine-lined piece is made for display.
Why is the autumn further than before,
Now trees play like statues, spikes have grown so bold
To stab fallen angels which faith makes stone cold.
Their bloody glares freezing on what was once home;
Nobody sees, they hardly believe.
She cuts down the trees to bury within
Thin layers of snow what’s left, waste of skin
But one, barely breathing, she starts whispering:
“Come outside to play since there’s no such harm
As living between raw walls made of coal.”
Distressed, the fair chopper enters the den
Of finery, virtue as soft violins
Encite jolly ladies and one subtly scoffs
As if mocking beauty of youth’s swinging phase;
Blue plates on the walls start falling, they break…
So frightened are looking from damage and forth
Through the silver-plated, black metal front door,
The lady’s in waiting, always knows it all:
“I’m not going out there, so many to see
Behind red silk curtains”, the lady is me!
Vile women start pinching with needles my skin
And thrown I am out there; cemetery’s still
And all seems so lifeless but who could it be?
Calling my name through these heavy winds,
Is there someone out there, I’m cold and can’t breathe!
The bleeding, soft angel gets up, crawls, far cry,
Where is she going with wings stained, black eye?
From when fights for freedom were thrown in the sky…
Stop calling me, angel, you’re far from safe flight,
Now people mistake you: demon in the night.
Marble glued hands, fighting the snowflakes
Falling in thousands, then to their cruel death,
Reaching the ground, dig deep for gold strain
To make this person once whole again;
Why does a she-rebel trust me so well?
Alas, free and shout for the life that’s left
Yet why is the angel blade-crossing my chest?
Now, seems had me fooled: a watcher, tacit.
I’m turning my back and deeply press it:
I am my own traitor, must have finished it…
Source: The Virgin of the Annunciation by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo