She is a flower in desolate hours
She buds throughout many things
Outlasts the winter
And awaits the spring
...
When my emptiness was of edict
I went through a migration
Incapable to predict
Among my imagination
...
She strolls amongst the tore
Piercing pins within my more
I inch my miles behind but close
She smiles then blooming like a rose
...
A canvas wrought my antidote
My pouring thought in anecdote
All my worries and still some doubled
All my cares that aged my troubles
...