8 August 2012
She sits at a window
Combing her hair,
Softly and quietly
Like its precious and rare,
A gleaming white hand
Under shimmering light,
Hair golden by day,
Just as golden by night
As if Midas himself
Had gilded it's flow
With a feathery touch
Like kisses of snow.
Over and over,
Bottom to top,
One delicate cycle
Without pause or stop,
Staring ahead
With strange look in her eye,
Studying clouds
Or stars in the sky.
Age to age
Her beauty will stand
Though lines cloud her complexion
And years spot her hands,
She sits at a window
Combing her hair,
Until you look back
And she's no longer there.
Comb • Opuss № I