Myrtle

So majestic and so sad,
The hound of the Mogul Empires
Sits waiting for the time
Of vivid wakefulness,

When she’ll leave her slumber,
The order of the prison
She woke up to
Which keeps her in this state
Of eternal languor,

So at odds with the dance
She knows,
Of the forest where her grace comes alive,
Where she runs; where
Joy is happy to see her.

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