I met a lonely woman.
To whom hope was a luxury.
She was a maiden to misfortune.
Her dress, an interpolation, of curious eras:
Half medieval, half stone age.
She stood bending, like a moon walker
Tired of this realm of man.
Mid-term of life, her song was soured.
Sheaves of grieves
Were the harvests of her world apart.
Sowing in pain and reaping tares.
I met a lonely woman –
Haggard, bereft and worn-out;
Unkept and disheveled.
Staring like an apparition.
Clutching at life,
with shivering resolution.
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