She who perched on the windowsill,
Allowing time to float through,
White, grey clouds passing slowly,
Admiring books on wooden shelves,
How valiant they stand,
Against the race first and second place,
Each page a testament to dedication,
Covers touching, a balancing act in motion.
She who perched, deserted,
Coins carefully scraped from bottoms of bags,
Pockets emptied deep into the night,
How those notes slipped so easily
from hand to stranger in times gone by.
She who prayed silently
For an unfound discovery,
How great she became at singing the others tune,
Rejoicing in poets long gone,
Humming the others lyrics so frequently.