07/01/2026
Not bride nor saint, not flesh alone,
But breath reclaiming blood from stone.
Inside the hall, the statues wait,
Hands frozen mid-forgiveness, fate.
Outside, the sea repeats her name,
A silver tongue, a widening flame.
Wind lifts the veil, the past gives way,
Rigged masts bow low across the bay.
Empires rust, but she endures—
Not pure, not soft, but self-assured.
She is the pause before command,
The open palm, the closed demand.
Where history ends and myth begins,
She stands—unruled, unruined, unthin.
And marble learns, though carved to last:
The future moves.
The veil is cast.
style Peter Englund
Vanity Vain
