It strikes -- the scorching sun.
Her hair is messed up in a bun.
The habit. The veil. It was a chain.
She walked passed--
Dashed on the abbey,
Where she belonged.
Down past the silent corners.
Deep inside the high-unending walls.
The deafening silence,
The mute languages.
Secrets. Enigmas. Paradigms.
Hides the very thoughts of her shadows.
Her history,
Her memory,
Her identity.
Alas! Her name will forever be a mystery.
Buried secretly in a discreet grave--
Wasted. Rotting.
Concealed by the glowing epitaph.
Unsheathe--
Destroyed she will be.