The Poetess
Not to show the sadness in her eyes
and the sudden tremor caused by pain,
she moves slowly through her elegies
with her feature's tenuous bouquet,
wildly tied, but also loosely held.
Half forlorn and somehow lingering,
for a while, a tiny tired smile
droops and drops like petals from a rose.
Almost carelessly, indifferently
she exudes a weariness, her hands
do still know of beauty, yet a guess,
they would reach forever, never land.
She recites her poetry from heart:
where fate wavers, life becomes suspect.
Then she adds it to her own soul's meaning
sounding strangely grand and fabulous.
And she lets with high-uplifted chin
all those words drift down again, fall off,
as no word does justice to her life,
for she treasures this, her sole belonging,
that she still must hold and carry high
far above her fame and even fall.
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