Poem: Spices, Candles, Mirrors

[wintersday]

Title: Spices, Candles, Mirrors
Fandom: Fallen London
Major Characters/Pairings: None
Wordcount: 307
Rating: PG
POV: N/A
Summary: A love poem for a city that doesn't exist.
Notes: A sestina.



Beneath the earth, the people feed their hearts
on rich, dark poetry; they drain their cups
of honey, tea, of bitter mushroom wines
and turn the pages fine as widows’ veils
still dreaming, when they can, a sun’s lost fires
to warm their faces, and their city’s stones

A city, still, is more than just its stones
and bones; here, urchins steal dry apples
and roast them, laughing, over hidden fires
Here, market wives trade spices, candles, mirrors
to ladies of the street dressed all in veils
of spidersilk, or stockings red as wines

But leave them; leave the taste of surface wines
and iron hoofbeats clattering on stones
and walk down to the place where thick fog veils
the water; know: all cities have their hearts
This one’s is sorrow; masters fill their cups
with tears and fear extinguishing of fires

For even suns are not immortal fires
In time light fades like memory of wines
too sweet for waking, tasted behind mirrors
and London, living, rests on older stones
The pages turn: four cities, plucked like apples,
eaten; sunlight burns but darkness veils

And will you lift away those final veils?
You might yet put your trust in brighter fires
in stronger spices, bones and marrow, hearts
made flush with song and love, and heady wines
Adorn yourself with stories, silks and stones
And drink your future deep from jeweled cups

Or else, step from the world and through the mirrors
Let silver paint your eyes with shining veils
You’ve traveled west to read the standing stones
You know the cold outlasts the fiercest fires
The taste of iron lingers when the wines
are gone, and yet – you won’t forget: dry apples

And London’s stones beneath your feet, and cups
upraised, and beating hearts. Tonight, storm veils
the streetlights’ fires, and lovers drink dark wines