She paints her brow with worries,
and combs her hair with fear.

The knapsack of strangers' troubles
is heavy, and sincere.

Her lips are curved and down,
awakened, but afraid.

Regret is growing in her garden,
Her bed is firmly made.

She tussles through her locks,
as if she dreams of laughter.

But love once lost is always lost,
her house is without rafters.