She taps her golden sword on the stones that soothe the bare, white feet, the gentle, perfumed crowd of women will watch in perfect silence. She beheads the last of their species, his head falls from the wooden chopping block, thumps, and rolls. The bearded king-face is frozen with a dumb look forever. His crown lays dead-gold at the feet of the Daughters. The nuns take his face away in a holy basket to where they're buried in their infernal churchyard.
The flowers are hiding, the Autumn leaves are changing their colors to rusted copper, and speckles of burnt orange, sharp black veins, everything is beautiful for her again. The sky is cloudy with dark, loving, blankets of blue rain on the horizon. There are waves of cold colors and bruised purple exploding bands, new-made breath with dotted blue highlights, white, fluffy cotton blooms fading in and out like lovers peeking through clouds in a dream.
There will be no more bloodshed, and violence, old, palsied men and their lust for wars, the tyranny of rulers and rape, the sickly predators and obstinance, the arrogance of masculine strength and brute power that now lays headless in a pool of expanding red defeat on her smooth, flat stones.
She is the conqueror and destroyer of destroyers. One of One. They were warned and given compassion, mercy, and it was met with ignorance and stubborn, gorilla-like stupidity.
Their spirits live in bronze urns in her oceans and lakes, rivers and streams, the creek behind her childhood home holds only one. The last of their kind will be planted for the embracing, open-armed dirt to flourish, her bright wish-gardens and polite grape vines, the blissful and heavenly orchard, her painted world entire, her feminine flock fluttering about like artfully colored butterflies, flying flowers for her, all as one now, beautifully silent.