I found, perhaps, the solace that you sought.”
When questioningly Abgar raised his head,
The mother thus continued, with a smile;
“You will not guess! But I will now explain.
During the months you dwelt in distant Rome,
I sent my messengers to foreign lands
That with their brush, they capture on the cloth
The prettiest of maidens of all lands.
If we but find the one whose very touch
Will ope the portals of your enclosed soul
Than all the flowers/ hid within its depths
Will rise to light, beneath the magic touch.”
Upon these words, she motioned with her hand.
A slave drew wide a drape of precious cloth
And a host of artists stood beyond the door,
Each carrying a painted masterpiece
Of some fair maiden from a distant land.
King Abgar flushed, turned sulkily away,
And only when his mother begged of him
He looked, but showed no interest or warmth,
And in his mother’s eyes, hope swiftly died,
Hope that had risen in a troubled heart.
When all the artists left, the mother saw
One, who still lingered at the open door,
Without a picture, a strangely lonely man,
With cheeks of pallor and bright burning eyes.
He waited in his dark, close-fitting cloak.
“Where is your painting?” kindly asked the queen.
Without a word, he loosed his heavy cloak;
And rays of light illumined the dark room
With the light of stars. This light poured
From out the fringes of a folded/ snow-white cloth.
King Abgar stirred with ill concealed foreboding.
“You have brought me news?” he asked. “Then speak, good man.
The artist approached the king and his words flowed
As from afar. They sounded dreamily
Like the winds that blow through the cypress trees.
As thus he told the king this narrative:
79
