Mediu
She was troubled by her own thoughts
There was no remorse or sorrow
Just a big net with many tiny knots
Of questions about tomorrow.
Walking always eased her mind flow
So she stepped on the road to the park
The only one she didn’t really know
The way of a forgotten monarch.
A little bench of wood allured her spirit
So well placed in a whitish scenery
That it would seem to be the outer limit
Of this winter's gown of mistery.
She bearly touched the wooden bench
That some old man, with curly hair,
Touched her eyes and said in french
Something that she knew was fair:
„Vous ne voyez pas ce que vous voyez, miss
La lumière est un ami pour toujours”.*
Those words that sounded just like a promise
Were for her heart the perfect cure.
* You don't see what you see, miss
Light is a friend forever.
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