I lost count of the trials,
That ended with broken ribs,
The skull that couldn't grow roses,
And died because of the poisonous Aconitum.
Even when the body rose,
Recollecting parts where the poison didn't go,
Like a destiny, writing on the stone,
It got knocked to the ground,
A victim of the misery's arrow.
With time the bones healed,
But something got wrecked, something grew weak,
What was something under the bones; the skin, the flesh?
It was the person, that was nowhere left.
