Sylvia, the grass that has grown on your
white flesh can see the stars and moon
battling for peace that bereft you.
Sylvia, the cells of music comply with the anxiety
that killed you every fraction of belief and disbelief.
Sylvia, the hues of your heart pursued you to
heaven and there are no colours left for us…
Sylvia it was your painting that breathed
Gas and along with you dispersed like pollens
in the air.
Sylvia, poetry is alone; words cannot walk
through the narrow caverns of mind. Solitude is
cold and constricts senses to bloom.
With you Sylvia, metaphors were meaningful.
You pronounce myth
And legend is born.
With you Sylvia, with you
A woman is reborn!