My mistress' eyes are nothing.
No eyelids to make them glisten, no irises to look at me. I am frightened. When she stands, arms spread, head slightly bowed, rising above the city – her city – I can only dream of tracing my eyes along the folds of her white dress, the folds that no wind dares move. Touching her is a privilege given only to the beasts attending her in her glory: the horse beneath her, and the bird on her shoulder. Where are the hounds, my lady? All gone forward, searching for prey to bring to you. They are searching in vain, my lady, for I am already here.
I am the most loyal of your liegemen. The others are passing by without even stopping to lower their heads. They know that you do not look. Oh, if you did. Oh, if they knew. The waters surrounding you, splashing beneath your feet, could flood the streets of your city which they arrogantly consider their own. And I would happily drown if that meant you would look at me once.
But you are patient. You know that those who are worth it will come and pay you their tribute. And eventually they will return. And sometimes I think that I know what your empty eyes are looking at.
“Come on, honey, we’ll be late… Here, take a penny. Drop it in the fountain to come back later.”
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