Being the thing that I am,
borne into this world of man
A waif,
Scent of water lilly on a gypsy's cheek dancing at midnight
A song,
sung by demons under the blood moon in the month of March
A mere reflection,
In a child's tear
With the want for nothing more,
than to evaporate with the coming of the rising Sun
But the sun never rises here
and reflections don't evaporate~A