Upon the cliffs where salt winds wail,
Penelope weaves her endless tale.
Threads of gold and sorrow entwine,
Each stitch a prayer, a sacred sign.
Her heart a lyre, strung tight with grief,
Each day a moment, each night a thief.
Yet steadfast stands her patient gaze,
Through shadowed nights and endless days.
The suitors swarm, a ravenous tide,
Greed and ambition their only guide.
They feast, they laugh, they drink her wine,
Blind to the cunning of the queen’s design.
For in her chamber, cloaked in thought,
A secret challenge she has wrought:
The bow of Odysseus, mighty and true,
A test no mortal could ever undo.
“Let he who strings this weapon of kings,
Be he the man fate’s favor brings.
And through twelve axes cast his dart,
Claim my hand, and win my heart.”
Her voice is calm, her resolve like stone,
Though love for one man fills her alone.
She bides her time, she guards her name,
A queen of patience, a master of flame.
Beyond the sea, her hero roams,
Through storm and sorrow, through distant domes.
Yet in her heart, his image burns bright,
A beacon of hope through the darkest night.
O noble queen, your strength endures,
A legend wrought of trials and lures.
For love and wit shall pierce the veil,
And bring Odysseus home to Ithaca’s tale.
2025 ©️
The Royal Octopus 