THE LADY: But green is the colour of earth, of living things, of life. We deck our halls with it and dye our linen. But should it come creeping up the cobbles we scrub it out as fast as we can. When it blooms beneath our skin we bleed it out and when we, together all, find that our reach has exceeded our grasp, we cut it down. We stamp it out, we spread ourselves atop it and smother it beneath our bellies, but it comes back. It does not dally, nor does it wait to plot or conspire. Pull it out by the roots one day and then next there it is, creeping in around the edges. Whilst were’ off looking for red, here comes green. Red is the colour of lust, but green is what lust leaves behind. In heart, in womb. Green is what is left when ardor fades, when passion dies and we die too. When you go your footprints will fill with grass, moss shall cover your tombstone and as the sun rises, green shall spread over all in its shades and hues. This verdigris will overtake your swords, and your coins and your battlements and try as you might all you hold dear will succumb to it. Your skin, your bones. Your virtue.
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