I see her down the concrete path, head bowed low. Her steps have the loneliness of old dust, stooped over shoulders as she is, like a weeping willow. I see her down the concrete path, head bowed low. She knows of pain, of trauma, of which she cannot let go, and dreams of no tomorrow, toward which she lusts. I see her down the concrete path, head bowed low. Her steps have the loneliness of old dust.