Dreamy moonlight pours across the quaint village of wistful hopes
the shadowy steeple, humbly keeping watch over the town like a mother over her babe
visions dance about in the minds of youths, awash in slumber
as the stars shimmer and glow, bright sequins on the velvety sky vest of God.
But towards the outskirts of town, where the trees loom like towers over the houses
where the deer run alongside babbling brooks like exuberant children,
sits a fair maiden of eighteen, dressed in a plain gown of ugly yellow.
Deep eyes of mahogany-colored brown dart back and forth between two men–
two rich, muscular, infuriated men–adorned in pearls and diamonds.
The handsomer one brings his great fist upon the girl’s face,
and a scream erupts from her moonlit, milk-white throat.
“Alas, I have failed thee, Lord! I’ve cheated a man!”
The girl’s mind drifts to an earlier day in which she tricked these men,
tricked them into paying just an extra nickel for a loaf of bread.
“God, be with me as I enter thy depths of loneliness!”
And the men violate her prized virginity, throwing her into a wagon–
their wagon–their dusty, rickety cart full of dried meat.
Tears, like the brooks of her homeland, stream from the poor lady’s eyes
as she wails in the abyss of ever-deepening despair.
Wishes are painted in her bursting imagination, vivid blues and purples
describing her spiraling agony.
“I am thy tainted lady!” cries she, erupting into trembling fits of fear.
The two men and the tear-soaked woman arrive at a sunset beach.
Oranges and yellows and reds streak across the sky and lick the salty ocean waves.
“Be gone, thy cheater!” the evil men snicker, taking the despairing girl
in their sweaty, sinewy arms.
“Oh!” whispers she, tossed into the hungry seas.
Among calm ripples and fresh breezes the lady drowns, her warm tears
returning to their birthplace.
A fair lily trampled and beaten, tossed into the garbage to rot.
Her legacy is nothing, her reputation ruined. Only her closest family grieves,
sinking into solitude.
“Was her clothing provocative? Perhaps it was!” Gossipy ladies chatter about the tragic death.
“The fate was self-inflicted!”
Yet it was not the fault of the poor lily, dressed in ugly yellow.
It wouldn’t have been her fault if she had been clothed in smooth black,
or towels from the bathing room!
The monsters, her killers, roam free and deemed innocent to this day,
while an unfortunate, crushed lily is remembered in scorn and
disapproval, forever branded as an untouchable sinner.