Set in Russia, or perhaps the Far East,
Out of memory a tale emerges
Of a princeling, highborn as Octavian.
In the afternoon, his loyal nursemaid
Came to his chamber carrying water.
Now in vain she hunts for her very breath,
Now her shaking hands have let the vessel fall.
Her horror is a whisper. “Oh, my child.”
His face is dimpled, his eyes small and black-
On the floor, the dust and shards of a vase,
Impossibly old, glazed in brilliant blue.
She crumbles down like a dry pile of bones
And mutters like a sage, “Priceless, priceless.”
He brightly smiles, noticing her presence.
“Oh, dear Nurse, whyever are you weeping?
I only made it smaller, it is all still here.”
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