she’s always standing with her
back to me.
and doesn’t really looking anywhere,
or maybe she is looking at the wall in front of her and weeping in the quietude.
I never saw her eyes or face,
nor even the reflection to embrace;
because that cement wall doesn’t bear a mirror.
I also see her hair that falls on the aristocratic shoulders that she bares.
is she is a simulacrum of my non existing dream or a permanent nightmare,
that I will have to bear
until I’ll turn into the memory