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St. Joan MAG
They warned me of this.
But I prayed
That they might be
Wrong.
They promised
To lead me to glory
If I made you a king,
And I did.
After fighting for you,
And sacrificing everything I live for
Only to have you turn your cheek,
I expected more.
And now I have been chained down,
Deprived of the glorious sun
And the warm winds
That once caressed my skin.
I long for the feel of the tall grasses,
And the feel of smooth leather,
My horse's worn saddle
Beneath me as I ride through the hills.
These people call me
A witch.
Much like you once did.
But they have no proof.
So they have condemned me
For wearing men's clothing.
And tomorrow
I will burn.
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