The White Queen

The White Queen sees it all from the hill.
She tastes in small sips the oxygen of the day,
wondering how bitter will be the next gulp.
If there will be a next one...

She gazes at the battlefield
still pretending to be a masked ball.
The little pawns wearing as for a party.
Dancing and laughing.
As it would last!
As if that was the real world.
Real!

The Queen thoughtfully touches her crown,
licking the last sip bitterness.
She knows them all.
By their names.
The current ones and all the others.
She knows how many pairs of boots have them used
and how many dancing shoes.
She has looked them all in the eyes
and seen them all die a little.

An Odd Pawn goes up the hill.
It is not from this game.
From no game.
It was born for a whim.
A whim of something free.
But it is a pawn...
Without wings.
If it just got wings!
No boot is good for its feet.
And at the balls it can only
follow with its fingers the rhythm of the music.
Follow with its eyes the rhythm of the feet.

The Pawn greets her.
With a nod of its head.

The Queen offers him the ball.
With a wave of his hand.

The Pawn refuses.
With its head.
With its feet.
Barefoot.
The Queen nods.

Oxygen becomes more and more bitter.
More scarce.
Nothing.

The White Queen becomes more and more white.
More incorporeal.
Nothing.

The Odd Pawn sees it all from the hill.