With cause yet without reason she exists,
With sapphires for windows and a searing callous pith for a soul. Gentle yet vicious,
Deafening yet silent, stagnant in movement yet ever moving yet nobody cares.

Drenched in sunrise her skin flashes gold, and silver, and apricot and peach, and ***** coloured like worn cotton of a saari,
Cascading in emeralds and diamonds and rubies whilst filling the empty space with daggers that slice through the very nature of what it is to be human.

And still as she is constant in her ways of corroding the bewitching emigres on which she laid her foundations,
She is fickle.
The once sapphire windows become dulled and turn to lulling pools of icy slate,
Her viridian flesh tears down the breath it once nurtured.

The sapphire windows become slate and the viridian flesh becomes sapphire, and all is left is nothing.