Beata Beatrix

Keith M. Roberts, copyright 1974 - 2016.

Beatrice hangs in the gallery,
an oil-on-canvas soul to see,
huddled in her purity alone.

Hidden deep in a holy trance,
Beatrice meets an angel's glance,
in and out of an endless dance of years
and an ocean of tears.

The sword and circle paint the hour.
The sun poses above.
Beatrice prays for the fallen flower of love
to be brought in the beak of a dove.

Beatrice hangs in the gallery,
an oil-on-canvas soul to see,
huddled in her purity alone.

Creation waits at her fingertips.
Surrender sings from silent lips.
the stillness rings as Beatrice slips away
to make love with the Lord of the Day.

The sword and circle paint the hour,
the sun poses above.
Beatrice prays for the fallen flower of love
to be brought in the beak of a dove.

Beatrice hangs in the gallery,
an oil-on-canvas soul to see,
huddled in her purity alone,
turning to a stone.