Martyr
Face dried still in paint
Costume’d robes and diadem,
Offered arms caressing
Palm, and instrument of thy death
Thy form encased by an unknown painter,
In rounded, antiquated strokes.
Mouth created in straight lines
No smile to soften legacy;
A linear beauty
Like to blade which pierce'd thee:
Wast thou ever swallow,
Child keeping time with wind?
Black pupils wreathed in flames
Eyes(even in paint) are bright
With the pierce'd Love of
Thus, the bridge 'twixt me and thee,
Martyr, far above, is Charity.
