For Erzebet
The Blood Countess
“Justice, my lord,
Shall I have Justice?”
I say this to the barren
Wall, cold, stony, stoic.
Below more stones lie in wake,
Splotched with lichens, just lichens.
“Blood,” cried all,
“Blood,” swore my Cousin King,
“More Blood!” screamed the
Villagers—
Was it mine they wanted?
Was it mine they saw on the stones?
Was it maiden spilt, as I now
Stand judged of letting?
But where is my story?
When do lichens turn to Blood?
To Blood money for me?
Who speaks for me?
What ill fame cloaks me?
With no defense I am
Accused.
Blood, mine royal, damns me,
My trial is forbidden to me.
My husband is gone,
His blood spilled in battle
For king and country he
Widowed me,
For greed and ransom,
He forfeited my home…
Blood of innocents is spilled,
Blood of ignorance
Blood of young girls
Of Iron maidens never met,
Blood of crimes laid at my door
Till now, I stand and ask again
As the cold wind sighs through cracks,
“Shall I have Justice,
Master Jailor?’
And the walls weep blood-red lichens
And reply, “For you, never more. ‘
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