Shall I tell you what these things mean?
Kassandra, captive, stands beside the altar,
in Argos, Kanawake, in Babylon or
wherever you may please.
Her wasted face, tear-marked cheek, shines Pre-Raphaelite,
but her eyes are shining star light in the summer of the soul.
will you stop to listen?
Do so quickly,
for her time is nearly out.
There is a hope that sits upon your shoulder
like a little bird,
the pastor’s daughter.
She’s singing (you can’t hear it),
but she and I forgive you.
I will go to die (for I must die)
like that little bird
because she and I know what
you can’t believe,
or don’t have strength
Courage, good master Ridley:
All will be well, and all manner of things shall be well,
And in the End, even the fall will be made Well.
That is all she ever says, poor girl.
If your travels lead you, stranger,
by way of Holy Ida,
the desert village,
or wherever you are going,
Tell them what she said.