She gazes out the window,
wondering what can make her swallow her pain..
All she sees are the city things,
never the sunlight on the dying grain.

The winds blow, touching her cheeks..
Appear the clouds, to not let the Sun burn her skin..
Flowers blossom, knowing she’s unwell,
wondering if forever, that’s where she remains..

She knows all the efforts the nature puts in,
not being a stranger.
To make her feel good again
and not to give in and be the same mess-maker.

How she wishes the winds knew,
that those remind her of a fragrance..
How she wishes the clouds understood,
protecting her, they multiply his absence.

The winds blow faster,
the flowers grow bigger,
Telling her not to be afraid..
The sun goes down like setting a crown,
of inspiration and desires, on her head.

For her life seems without any pleasing sky,
down the street, across the breeze,
there comes a butterfly.
Asking her if or not can she feel a thing,
she looks at it, about to cry.
Says, “Strange is all that feels my heart.
Though I ain’t a queen of spades,
I’m rich enough, to feel this pain,
The passionate pain that sharpens the blade.
Feels out of the picture, like kept in a cage.
Not a nice place, for each satisfaction,
but a cruel place, for each remorse.
The butterfly simply rose, gathering up its courage.

Asking, “Ever carried anyone’s heart with yours?”

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