Slim by the window, in frittering light,
She stands, slender fingers stroking the sill,
Lids flickering over languid brown eyes as she muses,
Something unspoken on her lips.
Priestess of nuance and implication,
She looks to the evening to ease her,
The cool green stars to read her mind
And the river to wash away pain.
A shuddering bird-shadow prophesies
In the detailed emptiness, the sifting shades
Like water in a well, only betrayed, now and then,
By a falling thought’s splash, a tiny echo.
Terrible sophistication belies her.
How long since she saw herself truly?
Her face cannot be seen in mirrors.
Her voice is not heard when she speaks.
These yearnings, if they do not kill her,
May force a new treaty with reality,
A more decent compromise with the truth,
Or so it feels when the retreating sparrow calls.
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