She passed and left no quiver in the veins, who now
Moving among the trees, and clinging
in the air she severed,
Fanning the grass she walked on then, endures:
Grey olive leaves beneath a rain-cold sky.
He says he loves you like a sister. Well, I guess that’s relative.
Without you I do not live.
I merely choose to breathe, in the hope I shall one day be your martyr.