The young prince held an earnest grin in picture frame
A moment of lyrical joy in an oppressive buzz,
You bear the weight of longing, yet you flourish, still
tethered to the memories of home.
The prince was made a stranger,
Donned stiff-collared, school-boy style and
Relegated to the back row,
Thoughtful eyes peaking over pale-faced fellow’s shoulders,
but the crown was ever yours.
Through the dark of time passed
Voices rang of mothers’ cries,
Of joy, of a prince unborn,
A prince outcast, yet unforgotten
A silvery smile retells an unsung story,
Made stranger with a coronet of thorns.
A callous battle would have the child,
Uprooted from the blessed,
blood-soaked earth,
and wild greed-gilded men
Coveted this holy land and purged it,
Tearing at his father’s robes,
The kingdom’s treasures slipping through his cold, stiff clasp.
Now strange and cold it was,
In the young man’s final struggle,
Pain searing through the tender chest.
They looked over the stranger,
Cast his sovereignty aside,
Cast silvery smile in back row,
And left him to the storm.
-Shaquira
