Her existence is a paradox For even the buffoons seem to be mocking at her Her power lies divided Fixed on a candelabra With men in the churches gazing at the strength And old ladies lighting it for solace The wax melts and the world is plunged into darkness Tendrils of smoke drifting upwards Shapeless silhouettes driving people towards the end The dome of the hall covered with embodiments of its remains The chandelier soaking the suffocation amidst And still in the hands of that artist in the corner With a palette in the right and swollen fingers holding the brush Lies a hope of resurrection of the dainty lady's grace But only In the painting and the caricatures.