In the hour when the sun shines dim on her life 
Never knowing what freedom is about,
Then her sorrows will fill the horizons from rim to rim
Even though kind hearts may grieve. 
Rough and rude,
Not a rhyme or a reason for this...
Anchored in harsh repressiveness
Tautological truisms test our acquiescence,
Incipiently developing and forming desperation
Overthrown. 
Now is the time, 
As it always has been the time, to see that
Life is a flower that should never be plucked. 

Woe is never the dominant sense or emotion
Of such as she.
Mirroring her own transcendence,
Evanescence,
Nuanced acceptance, but 
Still subtly rejected in her heart.

Did my mother die on this day for no reason,
Asks the child of ancient 
Years.