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SORCERER 1 Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we Wring fingers, gazing nervously Into our black, obsidian mirror? SORCERER 2 Or, in our water jugs, to peer, Unbinding and retying twine, In hope epiphanies shall shine? SORCERER 3 Or shall we three, like puzzling mages, Cast bright corn-kernels ‘cross the pages Of scripture, wincing to descry Some omen there? SORCERER 1 Or shall we lie? SORCERER 2 Were not your lethal gaze forbidden, Our eyes from yours no longer hidden, SORCERER 3 These mirrors unfilmed to windows- SORCERER 1 Wink We not, you might their contents drink. They look at Motecuhzoma. TLACAELEL Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames, Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangman’s stew, You dare let sink your cataracted gaze Upon the solar luminance of our king? Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death. MOTECUHZOMA Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away. My hopes were stillborn by these blind-man’s bluffs. SORCERER 1 A grand charade shall come to pass, As marching mysteries amass, And urgently these lurkings gather. SORCERER 2 If that is what your lord had rather Hear from us, so be it, then. SORCERER 3 We’ll break our seal and thus unpen Two breeds of vision we may show:
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Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
The Floral War 2:3:40-67
SORCERER 1 Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we Wring fingers, gazing nervously Into our black, obsidian mirror? SORCERER 2 Or, in our water jugs, to peer, Unbinding and retying twine, In hope epiphanies shall shine? SORCERER 3 Or shall we three, like puzzling mages, Cast bright corn-kernels ‘cross the pages Of scripture, wincing to descry Some omen there? SORCERER 1 Or shall we lie? SORCERER 2 Were not your lethal gaze forbidden, Our eyes from yours no longer hidden, SORCERER 3 These mirrors unfilmed to windows- SORCERER 1 Wink We not, you might their contents drink. They look at Motecuhzoma. TLACAELEL Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames, Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangman’s stew, You dare let sink your cataracted gaze Upon the solar luminance of our king? Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death. MOTECUHZOMA Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away. My hopes were stillborn by these blind-man’s bluffs. SORCERER 1 A grand charade shall come to pass, As marching mysteries amass, And urgently these lurkings gather. SORCERER 2 If that is what your lord had rather Hear from us, so be it, then. SORCERER 3 We’ll break our seal and thus unpen Two breeds of vision we may show:
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com
#iambicpentameter
david-betten
Written by
david-betten
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
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