She said God loved her and He loved her people and He had sent her to save them. Such crazed conviction in her deep abyssal pools-of-passion eyes, the long fearless lashes shading glimpses of another memory of the castaway souls judging in their titillated trances over the destinies of God's folks but themselves swallowed abysmally into a ruin world-without-end. She had the appearance of one whose passion was dangerous and they were suspicious. She said she had come to save them and they were suspicious. If only they would look hard into her crazed eyes and glimpse the terrible that waited there. Gaze, gaze long and deep into those passionate eyes and save your eternities, ye Pharisees. Judge ye not of her who stands caged and a criminal before you now. For she is Joan of Arc and she belongs among you and has come to save your souls.
Her eyes rave within themselves as if the waves of the ocean have gone wayward and know not where to flow and swerve hither and thither. She is Joan of Arc. Her reckless eyes uplifted towards the inquisitors are lit aghast by the savage lust of evil worming its way hollow through the flesh of the Pharisees. She swore truth, nothing but the truth, on the soul of her land as one of the wretched picked and flicked a worm out of his ear hole. Oh! she hurt. The song of Joan of Arc hurt. The Pharisees conferred in the corners and the chief inquisitor leaned over to ask who she was. She said she was Joan. Jeanette they called her in the village, probably nineteen of age. Nineteen they said and smirked a cruel autocratic coterie smirk between themselves and there were orbs of ripples in her pools-of-passion eyes. And so on she went through the inquisitorial catechism. But she was still, as far as the nature of the beast caged in their voodooed court, a girl of the Lord. Joan the girl of Lord. Jeanette the Joan of Arc. And she was a witch to burn. But sometimes a speck of pity for herself and a fleck of fear flickered through those eyes as she felt in her bones the unseen net being cast around her. For you knew that secreted away in those bored aloof eyes of her captors was an obscene treachery.
They were fair and just. These inquisitors. And before burning her with a very inflammable oil they craved to fairly agonize her through the ritual of 'Prove thy fidelity to the Lord.' Their bloated cheeks were puffed with the poisonous gases of a surfeit of roasted witches. They had devil's horns and the parched striated fly-beguiling lips of the dead. To begin with they sought to confirm the roots of her religious being. So they asked as you do a child and a heretic if she knew her Lord's prayer. And she said yea. Who taught it to her? And she said her mother and then something suddenly stood still in those rippling eyes and in the lively courtroom and the ephemeral lives of her endless faces died away and for a trembling moment a pathetic perplexity stood still in those mimetic lineaments and the devil pulling at his horns too stopped and craned his neck precociously and hopelessly to sense the extraordinary befalling them. She closed her eyes rapt, her features softened, nostrils quivered, a soundless tear rolled down her cheeks and she voicelessly whispered to herself, "My mother!" The inquisitors who had sacrificed their souls and ossified their hearts at the altar of the earthly church unabated, laying their first trap, asked her for a recitation of the Lord's prayer and she like a sweet thirteen year old wrongly accused of a salty act too frightful for her frail arms to have executed artlessly wiped her cheeks with the back of her fingers and shyly shook her head as if she had been asked to reveal her virginity. The Sacred was virginal and to be sung in the inner sanctum of heart and not testified even in an inquisition unto death. Yet the Pharisees insisted and repeated their demand for Lord's prayer and threatened a witch's death if not knuckled to. But Lord's prayer was for the Lord and Joan was never, never the one to knuckle under and sing and pray to the mineral rabid throng a profane proof of pusillanimity. The tears checked themselves in the trickle and the eyes opened big and round and deep and fierce and Jeanette the vulnerable virgin withdrew within herself, within a shell hardened and fenced against the Pharisees, her face flint-like by an ardent stoniness of soul, Jeanette by Joan of Arc. But flesh to granite the fierce eyes still burned.
Her eyes rave within themselves as if the waves of the ocean have gone wayward and know not where to flow and swerve hither and thither. She is Joan of Arc. Her reckless eyes uplifted towards the inquisitors are lit aghast by the savage lust of evil worming its way hollow through the flesh of the Pharisees. She swore truth, nothing but the truth, on the soul of her land as one of the wretched picked and flicked a worm out of his ear hole. Oh! she hurt. The song of Joan of Arc hurt. The Pharisees conferred in the corners and the chief inquisitor leaned over to ask who she was. She said she was Joan. Jeanette they called her in the village, probably nineteen of age. Nineteen they said and smirked a cruel autocratic coterie smirk between themselves and there were orbs of ripples in her pools-of-passion eyes. And so on she went through the inquisitorial catechism. But she was still, as far as the nature of the beast caged in their voodooed court, a girl of the Lord. Joan the girl of Lord. Jeanette the Joan of Arc. And she was a witch to burn. But sometimes a speck of pity for herself and a fleck of fear flickered through those eyes as she felt in her bones the unseen net being cast around her. For you knew that secreted away in those bored aloof eyes of her captors was an obscene treachery.
They were fair and just. These inquisitors. And before burning her with a very inflammable oil they craved to fairly agonize her through the ritual of 'Prove thy fidelity to the Lord.' Their bloated cheeks were puffed with the poisonous gases of a surfeit of roasted witches. They had devil's horns and the parched striated fly-beguiling lips of the dead. To begin with they sought to confirm the roots of her religious being. So they asked as you do a child and a heretic if she knew her Lord's prayer. And she said yea. Who taught it to her? And she said her mother and then something suddenly stood still in those rippling eyes and in the lively courtroom and the ephemeral lives of her endless faces died away and for a trembling moment a pathetic perplexity stood still in those mimetic lineaments and the devil pulling at his horns too stopped and craned his neck precociously and hopelessly to sense the extraordinary befalling them. She closed her eyes rapt, her features softened, nostrils quivered, a soundless tear rolled down her cheeks and she voicelessly whispered to herself, "My mother!" The inquisitors who had sacrificed their souls and ossified their hearts at the altar of the earthly church unabated, laying their first trap, asked her for a recitation of the Lord's prayer and she like a sweet thirteen year old wrongly accused of a salty act too frightful for her frail arms to have executed artlessly wiped her cheeks with the back of her fingers and shyly shook her head as if she had been asked to reveal her virginity. The Sacred was virginal and to be sung in the inner sanctum of heart and not testified even in an inquisition unto death. Yet the Pharisees insisted and repeated their demand for Lord's prayer and threatened a witch's death if not knuckled to. But Lord's prayer was for the Lord and Joan was never, never the one to knuckle under and sing and pray to the mineral rabid throng a profane proof of pusillanimity. The tears checked themselves in the trickle and the eyes opened big and round and deep and fierce and Jeanette the vulnerable virgin withdrew within herself, within a shell hardened and fenced against the Pharisees, her face flint-like by an ardent stoniness of soul, Jeanette by Joan of Arc. But flesh to granite the fierce eyes still burned.
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