The curtain rises.
Two friends are seen in a tavern, each nursing a tankard of ale.
To our left sits Tommaso Dubbioso, an ostler and to our right, somewhat in his cups, sits Balestruccio il Sovrano, a troubadour.
“You’re wrong Tommaso, thee knowest her not as I do…”
“Balestruccio, these words I speak are not the dribblings and mewlings of a madman.
I doubt thee not that The Lady be the paragon thee claim her to be,
but if, as thee hast intoned time and time and time again,
her heart is free and unencumbered by the shackles of matrimony,
then why is thy arm free of hers?
Why are her hips not clasped by thy hands?
Why dost thy lips not carry the warmth of hers
or remember their sweetness?”
Balestruccio bangs his tankard down upon the table and in an impassioned voice…
“Tommaso, thou truly hast spent too long in the company of the horse,
For these lips have tasted hers and on them lingers still
the sweetness of kisses stolen under moonlit skies,
These hands have gently held a form that Venus herself
would look upon with envious tears welling in her eyes,
These eyes have gazed upon Her face, which art beautiful
whether She smiles or laughs or even cries,
These ears have heard the voice of this carnelian songbird
and revelled in the music of Her laughs and of Her sighs,
This heart, oh this heart of mine has felt so deep the beat of The One
that burns brighter than the eternal Sun’s celestial fires.
So yes Tommaso, this woman above all women,
this Goddess whose name I am not worthy to utter,
yet have immortalised in verse,
This Lady for whom I would lay down my life,
IS a paragon of femininity, a warrior of Her kind
who has fought battles both bloody and fierce
and stridden triumphant from the fray.
And there, dear friend, stand the ramparts of the castle
whose walls I must scale to win the treasure
that lies within its keep, the reason why her soft hand
is not in mine, why her long fingers are unentwined with mine,
why, indeed, it is thee I quaff ale with and not Her.
Know this though Tommaso,
My colours are planted firmly at Her gates
and Hers alone and n’er shall they fade
or be uprooted by the vicissitudes of life,
for Her greatest triumph
was the winning of my Love.”
Balestruccio raises his tankard, urging Tommaso to do the same.
“A toast my friend…
TO THE FUTURE,
AND TO THE CARMINE QUEEN!!!!”