No one can tell for sure
If it's the silky, seductive Reine Margot
That drives wandering swans
To Chenonceau.

Surely, her graceful harpsichord playing
Resembles the flock's precise yet delicate approach,
As it sews the white high clouds
Looking for the summer.

Or, it may just be that underneath their peaceful,
immaculate plumage, lie blacken hearts
Craving some traces of poisonous ink
That Catherine de' Medicis left on her remaining plotting letters.

Each wing beat holds either passion or deceit
As they propel themselves closer and closer.

And will they stay, just rest, or fly beyond the castle?
As these birds know no boundaries,
Freely coming and going, no matter the landscapes or the heritages nobility has built below.

Their comfort lies, perhaps,
On an unknown hidden Siberian patch of swampy tundra,
Where no one will ever be able to attach
Lyrics to their journey.