Her temple is hidden away on a busy street;
Maybe, a little blue and green room in a hive gasping for life is where she is
Enshrined.
Overlooking the dirty market place
With its stench of fish guts and crushed vegetables trodden over by careless feet.
The silver of her hair, heavy with unwoven words;
The drape over her shoulder reaching out to link fingers with the last morning breeze-
Folds on her fingers as she holds onto the railing
In her eyes, the stories of books abandoned on dusty shelves.
Perhaps she has the delicate scent of sandalwood settled into her skin.
Every wrinkle, a dream lived
Or lost.
I walk by,
Like hundreds do.
The haze lifts and she looks out with unseeing eyes that see everything.
Every wrinkle, a dream lived,
Or a battle won.
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