Contemplating an image now changed
of that painted kindness which was now old.
The women stared at her body,
that as mould proposed a hard life
and many times rearranged.
Her Face now decrepit and of pale white,
her soft lips not red and not pink.
The eyes of a yellow colour and no more of that black ink.
That poem depicting her life, disappeared in only one night
Laughing hysterically, the old lady combed her long hair,
and once again remembered when she was a child.
When her mother stroked her face and smiled saying,
"My child,once old, the memories become more clear"
By Nancy Castrogiovanni
