She Lives Poem by Gert Strydom

Paintings of William Waterhouse
is dear to her
and she paints images of women
and faces
and tries to find
a Tuscan world somewhere
and in the contrast of darkness
and brightness of abstract art,
I see something deeper
coming out of her soul and life.

She wears her auburn hair
in plaits and later it hangs curling
over her shoulders
while I read passion, happiness
and an urge
to be really beautiful
deep in her golden eyes
and I know that she wants to flower.

She takes the dogs
on drives to a park and the river
where they run about in joy
and splash and swim
and she lives every hour
as if it can last an eternity
and tries to catch joy
in a moment
and when the urge takes her
she writes magic poems,
sad songs
and sets her life
to follow the Lord.

Somewhere in all of this
it’s as if she get wings
and the old world
of her past
fades into oblivion
and at times I wonder
if she’s a angel
or human being
and I love her
and she adores me
and all the days together
pass much to quickly,
but the fairy tale
remains reality
and I see how my darling
becomes a beautiful butterfly
that sheds parts of her soul
in words, notes and painting strokes
and she lives in a way
that I can never
really pen down.