PRIMA NOCTA

Decked with diamonds, draped in white.

It’s his daughter’s wedding night.

But all he can do, to keep his cool

Is shift the sand between his boots.

In times like these, a woman’s oath
Is to her country, and the Pope.

The only one to own her soul, sits high upon a wicked throne

And casts deceptions to the eaves of the massive castle where he sleeps.
A peasant chosen to be wed, 
selected for the daily bread

They sow and reap, year in and out,

To keep boys humble, keep them down.

And now she’s in her marriage gown,

Her head and hem go spinning ’round,

As family, and village hordes lead our maiden to the wealthy lord

Who has his say, will have his way
With each young girl, her wedding day.

And yes, it stings, to feel the bite, as skirts go up and cheeks turn white

And yes, it’s evil I describe, and boils the blood of God, alive

That men should take what be not given,

With no grace, by fate’s decision, offer up a daughter’s hand into the clutches of a man

Much less in honor than his servants,

Garnering this endless worship.

And to the groom, whose wife is had, be he spiteful, be he mad,

The lordship feeds him to the lampreys… beneath a royal court, built in the name of charity and chastity.

Her muffled cries disappearing into silent dread.

Mother at the castle door 

“Take me, take me instead.”

And a father who is powerless in broken-hearted misery,

Their little girl’s impotent tears dissolving into history.

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