I paint my grin before the court arrives.
The bells I wear make music when I weep.
I’ve stitched my motley out of shattered lives—
They hail the fool who drinks himself to sleep.

At night I scrub the colors from my face
And meet a stranger, hollowed, pale and drawn.
He asks me what remains beneath disgrace.
I shake my bells. He smiles. We carry on.

I’ve kept a final trick no ear has known,
Enough to leave the hall one strangled gasp.
The king will roar, then stiffen on his throne:
That jesters save their darkest jest for last.

The court went mute. But past the gilded wall,
A roar rose up from field and ragged wood.
The peasants danced upon the tyrant’s fall—
The poor, at last, rejoiced as no king could.

The bells hang still. The children learn to play.
A jester’s death became their holiday.