The architect was worried for his dome.
He ate an egg for breakfast, saw it crack
with one spoon-stroke, imagined the attack
a well placed cannon ā€“ He’d a child at home

a daughter. It would cost him much to rear
her as a gentlewoman. Harpsichords
and sketching lessons. You’d don’t marry lords
without accomplishments. Shed a tear

made his decision. It was for the best.
His reputation was his stock in trade.
Much less expensive if she died a maid.
He sold his soul, her life, You know the rest.

His bloody hand plucked out her virgin heart.
The dome still stands, a perfect work of art.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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