During many ages, she lay in dreams.
Of darkling pasts, of stormy futures.
Of old loneliness, of childhood pain.
Fate who makes a few lives smooth.
But some turned into a thorny lane.

She dtifts in deaths of paupers and kings.
She soothes those who pass too deep.
She softly loosens, a hand that to life clings.
She laughs with children in their sleep.

Not hot nor cold, her nature drifts.
In woodland realms far found.
She listens to the beat of the earth.
And mixes the waters of sky-sound.

She does not judge, she only does.
She cannot die; she will not live.
She calls home the twilight shades.
Under skies and stars in other dreams.
Another life's record she cleans.