They gathered heads in gilded jars,
Arranged by beauty, rank, and art—
A general’s frown, a poet’s scars,
A queen whose mask outlived her heart.

Each bore the weight of rule and mind,
Of edicts signed and secrets kept;
The scholar calm, the martyr blind,
The seer who dreamed while others wept.

A servant polished each pale brow,
Reciting names in brittle tones;
“Behold,” he declared, “witness now—
The minds that reigned, now ghosts of thrones.”

Outside, the public was bid to cheer,
For every head still summoned frail belief;
They knelt before what once could hear,
As though the dead might grant relief.

By night, the jars began to tremor,
Their thoughts still clawing to command;
What minds once vast now softly murmur,
Grasping at truths they could not comprehend.

Years pass; new rulers claim the stage,
The jars remain, their legacy unmet;
Each age repeats its gilded cage—
And trades its wisdom for regret.

Each king, each queen, each malcontent,
Displayed for crowds in glass serene,
Craved what history could not prevent—
The final fall, the guillotine.