She’s each soul of those who slip on dark rooftops at night Every brick of every tenement wearing her bullet wounds like rings on her slender pale fingers. She has long blonde hair golden grain alike Always dyed dark, hidden under thy hood. That’s how she goes unnoticed forever bruised *****, beaten and hurt. She lurks in stone archways weeping, screaming into the night She hasn’t slept in ages yet she feels so restful facing cool dank pavement. She would kiss every sculpture in Saxon Garden Paskuda – she calls one of them, signed so proundly – Historia She would try to drown herself in cold waters of her beloved river Which saved her so many times before that it wouldn’t even be capable of doing anything but loving her and her beautiful blue eyes and the way she chokes on her memories every single night walking down old stone stairs of her forsaken streets. Non sum quails eram says her ****** tattoo inked with blood of her dear children and cherished lovers. And every other day she’d try to destroy herself she’d rot she’d burn she’d cry Because she’s reckless yet so sophisticated So beautiful and so wasted.