Infanta

I

They've set a tiny throne
before the pitched stake.
A lost soul's cry pierces
dry Castilian air.

II

Her reserve, a closed-blind smile,
is fixed by consuming flame.

III

She turns away.
The circle opened 
to let the throne pass.
Serenely she looked past 
our hands' open gate.

IV

Inscrutably Olympian,
revering eyes tarry
to witness the act's end.

She sheds her graver portion
as God's palms cradle
her breath to Heaven.