It lies across her trembling palm,
a shroud in miniature\u2014
white linen steeped in whispered harm
that dares not speak too pure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lace, in looping filigree,
still dreams of gentler roles:
Of hall and hearth, propriety,
of handshakes, fans, and strolls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But now it keeps a darker trust,
a vow it never chose:
to catch the breath turned iron-rust\u2013
this rose should not have rose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She lifts it with a practiced grace,
no flutter of dismay\u2014
as though the stain upon its face
were just the dusk of day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For she, long-schooled in frailer arts,
in rituals of pallor,
knows how to still her racing heart
and master death\u2019s own valor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A cough, a bloom, a fading thread\u2014
too real for poets\u2019 lies;
yet still she lifts her noble head
with fire behind her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And so the linen tells her tale\u2014
not tragic, though it bleeds;
but of a woman, wan and pale,
who will not yield to creeds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For even suffering, pressed so thin
it ghosts through woven weft,
cannot unmake the might within
the hand that holds what\u2019s left.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It lies across her trembling palm, a shroud in miniature\u2014 white linen…<\/p>\n