The Oracle sent yet another poem about a tragic female figure. I found this Waterhouse painting to fit the subject, and there is a window, onto another morning.
A child explores a broken cup in the grass.
Had it held poison once, does she remember
the woman weeping in despair
and and and
Her ghost haunts the shards,
life spilling an ocean of wild pictures,
an embrace then death.
She raises the cup to her lips,
her dreams stirring uneasily,
lets the liquid memory pour
in perfumed peace, a slow stream.
Would time have made a difference?
The girl shakes her head with a soft smile,
Best to make an end
and sleep in the arms of the trees.
From the night, the woman sighs, agrees,
Let the day grow dark,
so so so
this glass may shine
like a star in the grass
for a child to find
in the window of another morning.