Eyes out the silk-curtained window.
Slender fingers around the stem of a crystal wine glass.
The starry night glistened as it sang to her –
Die, mondaine.
Die, with your diamonds choked around your neck.
Your husband is out with a lowly demimonde.
She’s higher than you tonight,
Or every night, smoking her diamorphine.
What is the worth of your life?
One pearl necklace, paired with an earring
One diamond ring, paired with an anklet
The bottle is your outlet.
You’re just as ruined as that mundane
Other woman. Not so diametrical now,
Are you?
Die, Little Lady Mondaine,
Thirty-eight and with such an ugly fate –
How quickly her beauty waned.
How many tears would it be until
He prayed for her love again?
Her heels brushed the Persian rug
Mascara ran down her porcelain face.
What an ugly fate.
And die, mondaine, they chanted
On a plain and mundane night.
Your furs and heels won’t save you.
Your children, they betray you.
Die, pretty mondaine.
She listened to the mondegreen in her ears,
Sang to her by the moon. The stars.
A prayer.
Closing her eyes, her blood spilled into the wine glass.
The galaxy drank it and wept.
What a diamond, she was,
Lady Ayn.
