If Tristan was mending his girlfriend's jewelry, would he use an Isolde-ring Iron?
I wondered, if the hero had been overweight or baldy
would women weep, perhaps lose sleep, o'er Tristan and Isolde?
And then I pushed derision from my vision of the plot
and asked my heart to seek the part, wherein the story got
its hook and held my interest. The part where it took hold.
The crux of what draws in the masses, since the days of old.
How can we find a modern link, a crude analogy
compared to such medieval ink which peppered History.
I thought then of a trinket. A desk-top toy per chance,
those cradles of ball bearings swinging in hypnotic trance.
For love to last eternally, would mirror this toy's mission
and live within the pleasing din that chimes with each collision.
And just as in enchanted forests, mystic wood or copse...
The forces great will separate them, till at last,
the cradle stops.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Added by Poetry Lover
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