Isabella and the Pot of Basil

More about Isabella and the Pot of Basil

28 07 2026
Beside the altar of her quiet grief,
She leans her brow against the bitter leaf;
A pale emerald gown, like water spun,
Catching the light of days forever done.
Through golden strands that spill in heavy grace,
She veils the vessel and her weeping face,
Woven around the clay where secrets sleep,
And roots drink deep the tears that widows weep.
Beneath the fragrant green of basil grown,
Lies the grim relic that is hers alone—
A silent skull, a love the brothers slew,
Now buried deep, where only shadows grew.
No sun can warm this solitary room,
Where beauty tightly intertwines with doom;
She tends her garden with a breaking sigh,
Content to love the dead, and slowly die.