The English burned her, burned my girl,

burned her in Rouen’s market square.

The deathsman sold me a black coat of mail,

a beaked helmet and a dead spear.

You are here with me, iron saint,

and the world has grown cold and stark:

slanting shadows, and winding stairs,

and the night’s velvet nailed with stars.

Above rusty traceries, my candle

flickers and drops wax on the straps.

We, warriors, flew in your wake

and tinctured our days in your colors.

But when night lowered its vizor,

in silence you slipped out of masculine armor,

and white and weak you would burn

in the embrace of your faithful knights.