Beneath the shadowed boughs, I paused to rest,
Outside the wall where stone and silence meet.
An angel’s presence stirred within my breast,
Her form emerged, as if from stone complete.
Outside the wall where stone and silence meet.
An angel’s presence stirred within my breast,
Her form emerged, as if from stone complete.
The Communards were revolutionaries who fought for the Paris Commune of 1871, a radical socialist government that briefly ruled the city. After their defeat by French government forces, thousands were executed in mass shootings, particularly at Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery, where they were lined up against a wall and shot.
She rose from stone, her arms outstretched and wide,
Protecting those who met a brutal end—
The Communards, their faces etched in pride,
Still peering through the scars their death had penned.
Protecting those who met a brutal end—
The Communards, their faces etched in pride,
Still peering through the scars their death had penned.
Their ghostly faces peered through bullet holes,
A silent plea from shadows of the past.
The angel turned, and through the sacred strolls,
She led me to your grave, where dreams are cast.
A silent plea from shadows of the past.
The angel turned, and through the sacred strolls,
She led me to your grave, where dreams are cast.
Her hand led me through the gate’s embrace,
To find the resting spot where you now lie.
O Countess, yours was once a fleeting face,
Renowned and praised beneath an emperor’s eye.
To find the resting spot where you now lie.
O Countess, yours was once a fleeting face,
Renowned and praised beneath an emperor’s eye.
The angel beckoned, guiding me to you,
To where your tomb bore whispers of your name.
There first I stood, inspired by what I knew—
The fleeting vanity of mortal fame.
To where your tomb bore whispers of your name.
There first I stood, inspired by what I knew—
The fleeting vanity of mortal fame.
The Countess de Castiglione (1837–1899) was an Italian noblewoman and mistress of Napoleon III, famed for her striking beauty and elaborate self-staged portraits. Collaborating with photographer Pierre-Louis Pierson, she crafted visionary, theatrical images that anticipated modern photographic art and self-representation.
A courtesan, a spy, a lover’s flame,
You danced with emperors, yet could not stay
The hand of age, which spares no face or name,
And steals the bloom of youth’s brief, bright array.
You danced with emperors, yet could not stay
The hand of age, which spares no face or name,
And steals the bloom of youth’s brief, bright array.
I felt you near, though knew not who you were,
As through the graves of Père Lachaise I trod.
You walked beside me, faint as whispers stir,
Among the artists, thinkers, souls unshod.
As through the graves of Père Lachaise I trod.
You walked beside me, faint as whispers stir,
Among the artists, thinkers, souls unshod.
Through sculpted forms of bronze and marble cold,
I searched the eyes of angels, closed in grief.
The mighty, humble, young, and old,
In death, they share this city of belief.
I searched the eyes of angels, closed in grief.
The mighty, humble, young, and old,
In death, they share this city of belief.
She turned to me, her form both grave and kind,
And led me on through paths of silent sleep,
Where marble weeps and grieving stone enshrines
The Paris dead who dreams eternal keep.
And led me on through paths of silent sleep,
Where marble weeps and grieving stone enshrines
The Paris dead who dreams eternal keep.
Here let this letter rest upon your stone,
A tribute to the fleeting and the vast.
O Countess, may this tomb now guard your name,
A witness to the fleeting fire of fame.
A tribute to the fleeting and the vast.
O Countess, may this tomb now guard your name,
A witness to the fleeting fire of fame.
