Glossy magazine, fashion photography, fine white gown.
Strapped on angel wings, made of whitest, silken down.
The grace is in a sighed breath, above a moribund town.
Her eyes, high and sharp, distinct from alien and human.
One prince to carry now, priceless in her uterine lumen.
One prince, two daughters, whose hope we are consuming.
An simple shot, she looks out the window, sad and so proud.
One from heaven choosing to fight for us, the bloodshed crowd.
I don’t know why, but I offer my peasant magic, all prayers aloud.