she the one that strangers call to be the intrigue of them,
who walks with the invisible ghosts that dance on the morning,
and laugh at the sun.

she can stand as still as time in the passing of a moment
and fall into a hole as a rabbit would do such.

she keeps mystery pinned to her breast,
and smells of enduring memory,
yet faint and sweet that no one can place.

she who lives amongst the grave stones and grins with the moon as her lips,
the one whose face is hidden with darkened secrets of the mists
and who is whiter than freshly fallen snow.

she whose skin is of velvety feathers that are carefully woven together with dreams
and that of the sleep which she wears around her neck,
as with a crown of butterflies grace her pretty head.

she whose hair is long and dances in the gentle wind,
as it shines with all of the colours of childish fantasies
and she strokes her delicate fingers through it like the running of water

she whose stare is enough to melt ice
to calm the sea
to tame the wild beasts.

she who glides across the break of day and sinks into the sunset in the eve

she is the ending of every thing.