- The White Amaranth -

Unfolds, unfolds, in marble glory,
Austere and painless,
Wise beyond knowing.
Her lips are curved in secret smile,
The woman plotting, the string uncut.

Hail to the Lady of the Snow White Amaranth,
Her hair is loose, like the maiden fair.
Her King is gone to throne and hall,
Her temple tended by youths and maids.

But who will comb her long, dark hair?
Or bring her flowers from gardens there?
And who shall bend to kiss her lips,
Then leave her poems and pretty things?

The sky is golden, the petals are blowing,
Our Lady of Flowers, in her ivory robes,
Is combing and oiling her perfumed locks.
Who shall pull down those sweetened strands,
And bend nose to flower, lips brushing lips?

Oh, who shall curve our Lady's lips?
The King is gone, the halls are empty.
She stands and smiles in a blooming garden -
Her hand outstretched with a single red bud.

- Transformation -

Her hands are curving, bloodied knives,
The stone is running with ink and pain.
Screaming, who screams and laments so?
Clawing, who is clawing at her breast?
And who holds her firm, unmoving still?

Oh, my love, return to me!
Speak those words as you once spoke.
But you are gone and far from here,
Speak, o King - but say my name?

There is a howling in black-choked air,
Melodious, exquisite cries of pain.
And I swear that I saw your face in there,
Turned beneath that squirming stain.

This beautiful, exquisite thing,
I'll not forget - nor truly, remember,
That shining song that you once sung.
Your courting gift - the honeyed words.
But long before, you went from me -
Your throne a thief, and now this, now this...

Howling, they are screaming, I shall make it stop,
The tune grows cold - but yet, so sweet a sound -
Soprano, raised in a single true moment -
Oh love, I swear I heard your voice in there,
Mingling with mine, in a harsh duet.
Sing for me, then - join my mournful song!

Could I evoke you with golden wires?
Like harps strung through my traitorous flesh?
Could all these screams return you to me?
And all this beauty bring you safely home?

Let us return to that single sweetened moment,
Though my mind it slips, and that goes away.
Was it that golden place in ivory towers?
And I swear that I saw your face in there...
Or that exquisite screaming, the crimson flood?

I'll tend my flower - o, return to me.
And call you forth by screams - return to me.
Each wire a paean - return to me.
I swear that I heard your voice in there,
And each tender wing - return to me.

- Finale -

The House of Pain, with crimson halls.
Guarded by maidens, ringed 'round by wastes.
Sanguine amaranths steeped in fresh, red blood,
The singing of wires, and screams, entwine.

With silken, hot, and painful rush,
Blood clothes skin, a shifting thing.
All is lost in a single, sweet-edged moment -
Nothing but the lash and the piercing screams.

We worship still, in truth and change -
For the clear-eyed moment at agony's depths.
Do not forget, we still speak the truth,
And she remembers, with clear-eyed pain.

For just a moment, she remembers her King -
Was it her, the screaming, or was it him?
And who would hold her from going there?
What face so familiar beneath slime and dirt?

This is not my love - this is not my lord.
His face is twisted, and gone, and hungry.
Once he spoke sweetness, now there is stench,
What have you done with the Lord of Truth?

Then there is nothing but the exquisite moment,
For that perfect, sudden, shock of loss.
The screaming it rang, beautifully pitched,
Who was screaming? I cannot recall.
It's gone - it's fleeting - and all there is,
Is the moment - the shock once more.