She.

In her home,
no sun shines,
outside the door,
the winter's breath bites,
Afraid of the rain,
she walks away tonight
from the season's colours
that paints her in carmine.


A few red drops on
the corner of her lips,
A few more on
every inch where she bleeds,
she drips her finger
and writes a song
of harvest of the vilage
she left behind,
of the flower that came
near her with the wind,
of the rain that sheltered her
when she didn't need it.


she walks ahead
to search for the girl
she was before,
but never
does she sees
that
stranger
again,
for she
has
turned
into a
woman
of
love.