As she walks by the mottled glass,
I tilt ahead, to watch her pass;
Down the scourged road of Hamlin,
And into the arms of her kin.

Never have I witnessed such beauty,
In a town soaked with enmity;
a lotus in a raucous pond,
Devoid of sterile bonds.

Golden strands of hair,
Floats through the vivid air,
As I sit and watch her grace,
Disperse before my comatose Face.

I watch her with elated zest,
Follows her pristine breath,
Devours the sight of salvation,
To inebriate my sour complications.

Her voice ring in my ears,
Like a tone recited for years;
Reposes caustically in my mind of woe,
A dove in a midst of war.