Trianon Poem by Lemon Tea

A day at the Petit Trianon —
cast in museum light and sparkling splendour,
golden walls humming with whispers of vanished years,
crystal chandeliers trembling softly above
the footsteps of wandering beholders.
Lost in a chamber of suspended time,
where childlike wonder lingers still
in the innocence of watching eyes.
Behold the days when the evening sun
fell upon a palace so golden
it rivalled the heavens once.
And here, beneath the quiet glow of ages past,
where a mother once gathered her child close,
lingers a tenderness untouched by ceremony —
a fleeting warmth surviving
the wreck of time,
the turbulence of history,
and the long silence after splendour.