The Queen's boudoir was a cabin of satin and pearls,
the velvet carpets were soaked in tears for the king.
She had cried at first for not having him and then his well-being on stranger turfs,
once he was dead she could do nothing but sing.
She sang of the warriors, of the hills and the war,
for she had lived the bards and had lived it all.
Her palace was now a fort since it had no king and enemies were more,
she sat there awaiting death of her own so she could unite with her beloved and her body felt like shards to the soul.
Her pain was conspicuous and they could see how she suffered,
the loyal tried to console her, they tried to make things better.
The pragmatists blamed the weaponry or that wars occurred,
but she knew it was the men and nothing to them did matter.
Men cause wars and burn down every family, every house,
they kill each other and everything burns in the surrounding mere.
She told them this but no one listens to the criticism of jousts,
she died with these words like a prayer on her lips, cheeks visibly guttered with her last tear!
"Her last tear is the story of every woman who loses everything she calls her own, all because some men think wars are a necessity. This woman can be anyone, anywhere. The king is every man/woman/kid lost to the evil of wars and riots over centuries and the Queen is everyone who is left to suffer after them."