4. A Stalker's Serenade
(French Cinquain)

1

Outside the Meadows full of life,
   Beyond the fringe of Persian Zan *
Where passions end in pain and strife,
   There lies a ghostly like where none
   Who go there have returned by dawn.

It is a nameless lake; it's river
   Cannot be seen by living eyes,
Nor can the prayers of faith deliver
   The dead out of its banks where sighs
   Of living resignation dies.

Upon these shores my Therza wakes
   After a slumber, deep and long;
Her body's stiff, her head still aches,
   The remnants of her dreams still strong:
   Her slumbers tell her nothing's wrong.

She looks about and wonders wherefore
   She 'wakens here outside her palace
Bedroom where she nightly sleeps; therefore,
   She picks herself up off the callous
   Gemstones that form a shore of balas. **

Ah, how the jewel-encrusted shore
   Sparkles beneath a moon of moons,
Brighter than she ever saw before!
   She loses breath and nearly swoons
   Over the beauties of such boons.

But there's a cold sterility
   Hiding within these gleaming shores,
For in this charming moon-kissed sea
   Lies hidden creatures whose great roars
   Are whispered of in countless folklores.

But heedless of these rumored threats
   That sleep beneath the glassy sheen,
She says, "Where are my lovely sunsets?
   Where are the founts to cool my spleen?
   Where am I now? What does this mean?"

And so she wondered for a while
   Over the mystery before her,
And all the while, she eyes the isle
   That neither beckons, nor ignores her,
   Until its aspect 'gins to bore her.

She flicks her eyes around the scene,
   Observing all she could perceive;
Beyond the isle, the emerald green
   Of endless leagues of grass would leave
   Her silent, ere she 'gins to grieve.

Throughout this endless emerald field,
   Stretching beyond the edge of sight
Where night's dark curtain will not yield
   To the moon's radiant beams of light;
   Such is the strangeness of tonight!

Fighting the tears, she soldiers out
   Beyond the gem-encrusted shore,
Keeping her fragile wits about
   Her, trying to find the exit door
   And fearing to find out what's in store.

Onward she walks the pathless field
   Where never walks a living soul,
Trying to find the door concealed;
   Minutes elapse to hours, and whole
   Miles pass by without reaching her goal.

After she treks for many hours,
   She then looks back; there lies the lake
So far away the night devours
   It in a mist-filed robe of black;
   She says, "How long will this search take?"

She turns her eyes across the wide
   Emerald sea of glistening grass,
But as she does, she's back inside
   The confines of the lake. "Alas!"
   She says. "Wherefore can't I go pass?"

And so she sinks upon the balas
   Shore, there to weep her miseries,
Because some devilry or malice
   Ordains to keep her; if she flees
   Again, God knows what else would tease

Her with the cruelty of this game!
   And so she weeps and weeps and weeps,
Weeping with bitter ruth and blame,
   Quaking her heart with sudden leaps
   Of hope and rage wherein there creeps

The sharpest stabs of melancholy!
   Now all is lost; her soul's in tatters;
She knows not what is vile or holy;
   Her nervous courage cracks, then shatters;
   Hope of escape no longer matters.

No longer matters if she lives
   Or dies upon this cursèd spot,
On which she finds herself! Who gives
   A damn how far she's ever got,
   Where here upon these gems is her lot?

And so, she stews in miseries,
   Thinking of how to end her life,
Thinking on horrid revelries,
   Wishing she had with her a knife
   To end the struggles of her strife.

But even misters can fade;
   She wipes her eyes and spies the balas
Stones that now glint as if they're made
   To lure her eyes; she thinks of Alice ***
   From Carroll's books inside her palace.

And struck with wonder at the gems,
   She picks one up and then espies it,
Saying, "If you were me and gems
   Were maidens, how would you despise it
   If I'm to wear you?" Here she tries it

About her dainty fingers small,
   Pretending it is fastened on
A wedding ring whilst at a ball;
   But in pretending, there beams one
   Shining the shine of mischief fun.

She spies the glint, and up she goes
   To pick it up and try it on;
But when she picks it up, there glows
   Another brighter piece of fun;
   She goes on picking, one by one . . .

Until with fistfuls in her pockets,
   Until she's overweighed with stones,
She halts amidst her growing stock; it's
   Only now she notices the bones,
   The shifting gems, the hideous moans.

She drops the gems and screams in fright,
   Ready to turn and sprint away!
"Stay!" she hears a voice ring through the night;
   She turns around. What could she say
   To spite the sight that bids her stay?

For there doth stand a handsome prince,
   Prince of the realm she's stranded in;
It's just enough to make her wince
   In shame upon her green-eyed sin
   To steal the gems she cannot win.

His eyes, they blaze in foul contempt;
   His handsome face bestirs the soul;
She cannot move or feign attempt
   To free herself from his control—
   So strong's his gaze, so stern and whole.

For in those eyes stir all the fires
   Of Hell t' entrance her heart of hearts,
Her fount of lust and cruel desires;
   So caught up in such stinging smarts,
   She backs away in fright and starts

To lose her senses in her screams,
   Only to faint into a swoon
That sends her to her land of dreams,
   Where she will die on this full moon
   Inside her palace very soon.

2

And so I wait and dread the hour
   That will ere long spell out her doom:
My darling Therza, sweetest flower,
   I'd rather stay here in your room
   And make this place our sacred tomb!

And so upon the hour of death,
   I shut the doors and linger here;
And at my Therza's final breath,
   I know my death draws ever near:
   I'll meet you soon, dear—never fear!

I spy the dagger, pick it up,
   And place the point upon my breast;
Thrusting it home, I quaff the cup
   Of suicide, the final test,
   Then drift into eternal rest.

And so I follow you in death—
   Heaven or Hell, it matters not;
No fear of death or loss of breath
   Will separate our destined lot
   In bliss, where else is dust and rot.

(To be continued...)

A/N: Written on May 2016. Believe it or not, I hand-wrote this poem before typing it up. Of course, I had to revise some of it as I typed, but I think it turned out fairly well. This piece employs the French Cinquain, my 2nd use of that style of cinquain after my Poe-inspired "Lizzie Borden" piece. It's disturbing in its own way when you think about it, actually. ( O_O )

* Zan = (n.) a name for three different villages in Iran.
** Balas = (n.) a pale rose-colored variety of ruby spinel.
*** Alice = (n.) Alice Liddell from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass.