She dies, to grope the time,
for her beauty and infatuated life.
She wants back, her little lilies,
Petrichor, her small legs, and the buzzing noises,
of flies and butterflies, the chirping birds,
and the howling lives.

she sits on her chair, for a couple of hours,
an old flesh, with dusky clothes,
a state of seclusion, rolling tears,
rubbing her eyes, being oblivion,
and never realized this sonderous life.

This epiphany of life, glimpses of past,
fills her heart, with laugh and regrets,
the lost age and squandered life.

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