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.