The Thorned Rose of Naples

Resplendent in her Neapolitan crown,
Joanna reigned, both beauty and renown.
A queen of arts, of wit, of regal grace,
Yet shadows lurked behind her lovely face.

Golden tresses framed a mind so keen,
But whispers spoke of deeds obscene.
Her husband’s blood, they say, stained her hand,
A crimson secret in a sun-soaked land.

Oh Joanna, fairest flower of the south,
Sweet words of culture graced your mouth.
But venom, too, dripped from your tongue,
As princes fell and kingdoms swung.

Accomplished, yes, in politics and prose,
You played men’s hearts like virtuosos.
But in your wake, a trail of tears,
Of broken vows and mortal fears.

History paints you cruel and cold,
Your beauty tarnished, your legend bold.
Were you victim or villain, pawn or queen?
The truth lies buried, forever unseen.

Joanna of Naples, enigma divine,
Your thorns still prick across all time.
A rose of passion, of power, of pain,
Your petals scattered o’er your domain.