Shakuntala

"But what is ever the right thing to do?"
My naivety implored and he looked gently
Wise eyes through glasses, unsteady
He smiled, and looked over my shoulder
At the bare wall that gave him answers
"Who knows", with a shrug
Is never what he would say
I don't think he would mean it, if he did anyway
In it's stead, he told me a story
Of the old priest's daughter
Who fell in love with the prince
What blasphemy!
Love doesn't supersede duty
She had to forget him, but couldn't
She wanted to marry him, but wouldn't
Faced with the very same question
Until a revelation
That she was indeed the adopted child
From a heavenly dancer and saint
To beget a son, king of all visible land
Whose father was to be her prince, all the same
"And what do you make of that?"
He asked me, with a reassuring smile
I smiled and looked behind
At that wall of answers
I'm not sure if I found any
Or many