Streaks of dried tears trail her ruddy cheeks,
She speaks not, for her lips are sealed,
She looks so rigid by the flowing water,
For the knees on which she has knelt does not shake.
Her skin so pale it tells another tale,
Her hair so thick that the locks do not stray,
Her pose so strained and yet fragile she remains,
Her clothes withered and torn like feathers.
Why does this once olive-skinned woman not talk,
Why is it she does not move,
Closer I go to give her a dodge,
And there in her hands I sight her bleeding and once beating heart.