She lays her head in a bed of ashes
grown cold in the wind that whistles by.
She watches the last embers fall
from the corner of her eye.
Smoke clears, fire dies,
and here she lies;
weary, scarred, battle-worn,
fresh blood on her cheek,
the skin torn.
But this, too, will fade.
This, too, will fade.
And with the battle done,
neither lost nor won,
these last sparks will not remain;
memories of singing, of sighing,
of screaming and crying,
of laughing, of fucking, of glorious pain,
fragments once bright and brilliant red
will turn to dust where she is lain –
dust that settles, dust that scatters…
Slowly but surely, one by one,
they will crumble and pale,
turn fragile and frail,
they will dim and dull and fade