Her Bones are Glass
Her bones are glass; the diamonds in her eyes
Now shining dust, yet still and otherwise,
Though time says that she must, she still decries
The need, opposes it by effort, will
And awful grief and rage at what would kill
Her body, spirit, mind and heart, until
She mounts the ridges of that final hill,
‘Til battle’s over and the victory won;
So while she harries them, Age sets her sun
A-fade, Time lets her hourglass empty run,
Approach the space where sleep and she are one;
The sands thin silently, passing to less-
Than-empty, right to utter nothingness,
In view but fading, to her pale distress,
Her winding-sheet already worn for dress,
‘Til battle’s over and the victory won;
Comfort she needs, yet I can offer none
‘Til battle’s over and her victory won.
Art-Colored Glasses 
This reminds me, with only a little justification—of Inês de Castro, who was “buried at the Monastery of Alcobaça where her coffin can still be seen, [heads] opposite [and foot to foot with] Peter’s so that, according to the legend, at the Last Judgment Peter and Inês can look at each other as they rise from their graves.” You can find an account of the sad story at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In%C3%AAs_de_Castro
How did I not know this story before? I guess the fairer question would be how I know anything at all, but still.
Quite intriguing, in many senses! Poor Dead Queen, what a lousy time *she* had of it. Suffering is suffering, no matter whose or why. I’m more keenly aware of it right now because of my mom’s health struggles, but truthfully, there’s always somebody to tell some version of the tale. I’m only very grateful that when I tell it it’s purely second- or third-hand information or straight fiction. May we all have as few trials and tribulations as possible!