Her eyes are glazed
with the stoic film of acceptance of her fate

The fine lines on the parchment of her skin
run deep with the stories of her life

She gives me her martyr smile
that is a shadow of her sadness

The once dark monsoon of hair
now a withered autumn of frizzed white

Is she beautiful?
I have seen her this way, always
I have not seen her in full blossom -
a tender bud, eager to burst forth
and spread her colour in the canvas of life

But now the colours on the palette are dry, are few
O Lord wield your brush anew