No one is aware of that during each failed dating he has left a piece,
that his incomplete coronary heart has had a chunk taken out of it,
a mark, a wound.
That her eyes overflowing with tears
have made the leaves rustle
and there's no phrase on this hour
that may be a swing, a bridge,
a wall to forestall death.
No one is aware of that it become she who provided the coronary heart ,
who placed her shoulder, her palms and her back,
that it become she who carried the cross, who noticed the glass 1/2 of full,
who performed her closing card at the table.
It become she who walked the streets
and become singled out as a terrible woman.
Accused of tripping over the equal stone one thousand times:
night time cat, reasonably-priced butterfly.
Blind society that judges and points:
a damaged replicate seems like her soul.
For them sin has a woman's name.
For them her mattress is a map, a trap.
They who've now no longer visible what she lacks
They say cruelly, that during spite of lovelessness, she remains intact.
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