Upon the platform stand three men
Observing the levities of the
Too-corrupt King
And his vile court.

“Look, my lord, it comes!” sounds a voice
Piercing the night air,
Though I can not feel it.

My son speaks with caution
In his tone.

I cannot. I gesture for him to follow.
And the men quarrel loudly
In fear of my manner and my
Too-familiar shape.

“Go on; I’ll follow thee.” my son declares.

Alas, we are alone,
And with each other on the tower.

“Mark me.” I utter desperately

My son starts to speak,
But hesitates in fear.
The strangeness of the eve
Has silenced his tongue.
But his valor overcomes the fright
And he speaks.

“I will”

And I, with what time
Providence has granted,
Warn him of the events
Of my demise.

He hears and understands.
And his fear transforms into
Vengeance and tragedy.