She was so stout, her voice a bit too loud,
Her eyes full of poisoned sparkle,
You'd rather not wait for a miracle,
Her lips moving a bit, her teeth covered a whit.

And now everytime she seems to exhale,
The stream of air moves slightly her veil.
But is it really her breath?
How on earth can she have it after the death?
Is she alive? - No, No need to strive?

I'd say the frame of her luxurious profile
Would rather resemble the road to exile.
Is that her beauty that still keeps
The remarkable looks of her lips?
Though she seems to be rather infant
With velvety hair hanging down her front,
Her fragile hands clasped together,
Do not notice the chage of the weather
That can easily freeze inhuman blood
& Make of it stiff clay as if out of liquid mud.

Is she waiting for her destiny?
No, she rather can't forget the sound of that "rest in peace".
She cannot shake off the past that is emblazoned in her mind like a seal,
Never ceasing its movement like a perpertual wheel.
But where should be the end of the existence that seems to be eternal?
She realized that it is in the infliction that is infernal.
Her eyes are not already longing
Her thoughts do not seem to be thronging.

Is it the end that one is to stand?
It's the beginning? But what is the meaning?
The beginning of nothing, the Sisyphean end,
That would capture like a quicksand
The exit to nowhere...
When you see only the wicked frozen stare.