For her, dying was not mandatory,
She could knot herself to life,
And strip the skeleton of death,
To unveil its inexhaustible secret.
The mirror could see itself in her;
Whirlpools of nostalgic infinities.
She is the lock that fits every key;
The answer to all the questions.
She is as intangible as unfound ideas;
Unending time uses her as a rustle.
She is the ingenuity of impossibility;
Can turn the chaste into fornicators.
But she died thirsty upon a mirage;
The keys rusted, mirrors were broken.
She was lost to inviolable distances,
And took all life along with her.
Her posthumous days were imperfect,
Like a street without the other side,
And on the unsettled anxious dawn
Was the hint of an indeterminate her..
