Lord Scarlatti's Fall
By: Nerodia Posted on: June 22, 2006
The Lord Bard and His Lady Love
Strolled the sunlit streets
With naught but idle words to break
The silence of the Caer.
On snowblossoms They lingered
To proclaim each petal's beauty
In voices soft and musical
That moved the mountain air.
A thing so small and precious,
Thought the Lord of Song and Dance,
But infused with such dread power
Is a wonder to behold.
Clean and white, each blossom
Like a drop of fragrant snow
From whence a venom of obsession,
If consumed, will yet unfold.
At the changing of the guard
The pair went on their separate ways,
Attended to Their duties each
Their sacred realms watched o'er
Ere long, Selene began to feel
Within a subtle stirring.
Some whisper of discomfort, which
In time became a roar.
The tremor developed to a quake
And pale became Her visage
Like a sickly shroud of death.
Much concerned Her children were.
What of Lady Love? They sought
To know Her heart's affliction
For not long could in beauty
Such an illness be endured.
To Her side Mithraea drew
With words of understanding.
In contemplating healing herbs
She hunted for a cure.
Salves and elixirs could not aid
The Lady in Her strife,
No root or berry of proven worth
Could to Her restore vitality.
So the Lady of the Heart,
Whose charge was purest Love
Turned away the Lord of Song
To save Her immortality.
Gentle Scarlatti bore the pains
Of His true love's refusal
With such genuine grace as befits
A God of our Lord's stature.
When comfort came to nurture Him
He yielded to her love,
His woes assuaged within the arms
Of a woman born of nature.
What mean thing is passion, then,
If love be called improper?
The Lord Bard's judgment broke upon
The world as like a storm,
Whence the clouds of grey discolor
Every thing of passing beauty.
Songs, still sung, would echo sour
Now dissonant and deformed.
Poetic words would agitate
The ear, though still in rhyme.
The graceful movements of the dance
Were a whirling disarray.
As Scarlatti slumbers, all
The vigilant await
The coming of the Father
To sweep aside the pall of grey.
Then shall the trumpets herald
And the colors spring to life!
Then, the mighty music,
Then the harp, the lyre, the fife!
Then meaning will return to every simple poet's quill
Then all will know and love Him as the faithful love Him still.