Queen of Swords

The butterflies are but daydreams.

I carry on the oracle tradition,

I do as my mother did.

Grim and sad little girls grow

And become grim and sad women.

Every day brings clouds and crows.

I can discriminate, foretell.

I merely glance at the sword.

It reflects, it shines, it blinds.

I find my distractions in the high wheeling birds.

There is no escape.

I number my days with crows, clouds, and the sword.