The Quaint One (Quean)

Lyrics

It all begins with one word.
From Old English, *cwene*.
It just meant woman. 
That's all it meant.

One branch of the word grew toward the sun.
Its vowel grew long: *cwēn*.
It found a throne.
It learned the cold weight of a coronation ring.
Became the signature on a peace treaty in 1453.
A word polished smooth with reverence.
A word for tapestry and law.

One root, two branches in the air.
One word for a woman, split by a stare.
One for the court, one for the alley's end.
And the dictionary never makes amends.
Language remembers what we choose to break.
For goodness, or for goodness' sake.

The other branch grew in the shade.
In a cold London workshop, lit by a tallow wick.
Chaucer's quill scratched it out around 1400.
He put it in the Miller's Tale.
It was a whisper in a smoky alehouse.
A word to pin a woman's shame upon a wall.
The ink dried black.
The judgment dried quick.

One root, two branches in the air.
One word for a woman, split by a stare.
One for the court, one for the alley's end.
And the dictionary never makes amends.
Language remembers what we choose to break.
For goodness, or for goodness' sake.

And what of the women?
The ones whose names are gone now?
Whose whole lives are just this sound, this syllable of scorn?
For a moment, in a forgotten corner of the 1500s,
it was used for a young girl, affectionately.
A brief, sunlit clearing in the wood of the word.
A joke, a kindness.
Before the darkness settled in for good.

Queen.
Quean.
They don't remember each other now.
Living in different houses on the same old street.
The old root is buried deep.
And we are left holding the two sharp pieces.