The Fairest Flame (serious Limerick challenge)

A white maiden rode out of Lorraine,
On beauty only faith can attain.
Leaving church bells behind
Fairy tree, yarn to wind,
Past the creek and a wild blue crane

Her rising joy at road and inn
St. Margaret, Michael, St. Catherine
Blooming vision to share
Her Breath hanging on air
All who had suffered were kin

Le Roi could not turn from her eyes
So pure that grown men would cry
No foot for the dance,
No heart for romance
Knowing only Orleans to supply

Harsh friendships were formed in that year
Even Jeanne and the grizzled La Hire
Each battle foretold
Made English hearts cold
And hatred was seeded on fear

In Rheims where Dauphins were made Kings
The crown just one more true thing
She’d no use for chess
Or motives to guess
In dreams her sword caught in gold string

Weapon. Battle. Stone. Blood. Sweat. Gun.
The Weaseling at court had begun.
A child with a lance,
The glow of God’s glance,
Saw nothing behind her but sun.

Victory up to the Paris gate
Impossible task or blind Fate
To stop her advance
Left no second chance,
A miracle damned at full spate.

Sold March, bright steel, chill April, cold fare
Tears soak the mane of her tall grey mare
Still, forward at dawn
Confront them full on
Voices counsel at each morning prayer

Jeanne rode out arrayed in silver cloth
O’er the bridge like a bright fiery moth
At Compiegne’s gate
Cut and betrayed
A legion's hooves to break her troth

Bound, brandished, war child weeping
No air, no light, no garden keeping
The eyes of old men
A dove in a pen
Knowledge and fear never sleeping

And from the annals of that year
Jeanne’s voice carries light and clear
Her pure words confound
Those who call her unsound
None who questioned could rise as her peer

"Witch, now admit thy voice's evilness
All lies from Hell thou wilt redress."
Confronted with fire
“I did so conspire,
Pride, blood, and man’s clothes--I confess.”

After this forced abjuration
In her small cell, an altercation
Pulling on men’s garments
The end of her torments
Sure at last in doubt’s cessation

Taken in a white gown, barefoot, alone
For her Voices only to atone
Rise on the fatted fire
Rent by scalding briar
At dusk only cinders and hot stone  

Pale blossoms, white petals fly away
On the silver Seine the mayflies play
Ashes in the air,
Memories of prayer
Jeanne the Maid, eyes of grey, lost today

Translation No. 2. Tattered Verse

The Oldest Verb: To Cleave