In the boldest stories of her time,
the sharpest memories of each crime,
lives all that one was farce and mime,
the shadows of a dream sublime.
In the oldest fragments of her life,
the deepest scars of bitter strife,
lurks all that once was man and wife,
the jealous cut of sorrow’s knife.
In the coldest reaches of her mind,
the darkest places she can find,
lies all that she has left behind,
the pain inflicted by her kind.