She stands in Flagstaff Gardens,
painted bone upon her face,
eyes lowered as if listening
to something buried and old.
Feathers rise from her crown,
counting time in silent stripes.
Metal rests against her skin,
cold, deliberate, ceremonial.
Around her, the crowd blurs
witnesses without names.
Once this ground knew commands;
now it keeps secrets.
She has not moved yet,
but the garden already knows
she will.
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