The breath that must withstand the agony of birth,
as an innocent child enters the world,
also is the air that cares for the stern man,
who pays her no mind.
Her careful hands cradle the baby bird,
as her eyes shed.

After the days of symphony,
the sound of sweet spring
from the years that have long been forgotten,
She lays here now in the thickness of the blanket,
coldly shivering in despair.
The days of the young are masked
by the shattering glass of misfortune.
Her soul is dead,
yet her body is still alive.

No reason to give up,
her psychiatrist reasons.
But, she insists, that her candle light has gone out.
Pale as an angel,
she floats over her skin.
The sweet songs of salvation have vanished
and the sour breath of the woman has remained.
The dreams and motivations,
slaughtered by the people of society,
she knows she knows, there is no way out.
Their criticism is a part of a nightmare that never ends.

The troubles of her life have overcomed,
She is the woman that
society denies. Undesirable
as the growing weed in a garden.
She wants to grow into eternity,
to reach her sense of solitude.
Be she is the woman that society
condemns.

She is that starchy ghost,
hovering at dark, lame hours.
Her flat boat decks,
riding out the orange pain.
She has thought about it before.
To stop melancholy and the distress.
Maybe just one sip,
maybe just one slit.
But the way to live the life of a woman,
one has to go through the pain.
Although her soul swam the furious water,
she lays the foundation for her life.

The problems,
the despair is what makes her a woman.
The breath that has gone through its worst,
is filled with the haunting of the past.
The dreary dead is hanging,
in the clench of her fist.
But there is still the glass of optimism.
The everlasting time of the woman has not run out.