She who...

She who misses the dead and treats kindly the living.
She who dreams of the past and retells the same tale.

And she who understands no more the world as it is unfolded.
Yet she stays on it, even when perhaps it is not her world anymore.

She carries the flavour of bread.
We all know, it will be gone without her.

She stays in the only room with light around.
And I keep myself in darkness, writing for not actuqal propose about her.

For she is the tale in itself
The root of all the stories that came later

Fruit of some short of crime in a moment when it was no crime and it was not ill-meant.

She failed not into giving me faith
I just created a differewnt faith and I do not believe in what she tried me to.

And the tale is still happening.
In pain from time to time and feeling pity of somethings that should not be pitied but Who am I to question such?

She who misses the death ones and sleep with the past
Still rounds our present, and makes it definitely different and unique.

She's not our tale
Yet we're hers.