Comments about Helga Symon
It's those damnable curls that I see when my eyelids slide down
That revive my exhausted and lost in mad wanderings spirit.
Catlike eyes shine like beacons when darkness surrounds;
For the touch of pale hands any saint would have sinned.
I will never forget wisps of smoke carried out from the hearth,
Perfect lines of your limbs move with violin's sound.
And I know till the very last time I draw my shuddering breath,
It's those damnable curls I will see when my eyelids slide down.