She has dedicated her existence to love
affection craved and never withheld.
Living in a dreamlike state of untruths
that to her were as honest as the sunlight.
In dreams she lies in green meadows
the wind curving the golden barley.
Her heart is as permanent as the stones
her love unlimited and free.
She knew men that she called lovers.
They drained their needs and desires
Into her and she loved them.
She bore their children and gave them all.
When they left her she lost a small piece
of her heart.
Sometimes they took a big piece.
After many years she had none left to give.
But still she gave herself to them.
When she died she lay rested.
Below the swaying branches
Of the weeping willow.
And all the flowers turned to her grave
To bask within
her warmth even in death