A quiet face, with weary eyes.
With words I heard no child speak.
When she said her goodbyes,
In my heart, they sprung a leak.

New thoughts covered that memory old.
Yet, deep within, I remembered.
For it was written in heart's pen, with letters bold.
Too hard for my yet young mind.

She seldom spoke of the racking pain.
She would dwell not on the misfortunes.
That had been her enemy and bane.
She died as she was, not loyal but uncomplaining.

Whilst her blood moved, her path was hard.
But for others she made bright.
Her sadness sometimes eclipsed her sun.
It never did obscure others' light.

Happiness she had known in childhood.
And bright indeed was her face.
Wild little girl, heedless yet kind.
Yet grief was her character's base.

In love and life she found not success.
In her own path she was lost.
The dreams and death of dear peace.
Only she knew what they cost.