Fragile, she sits there
All day long
Tilted neck
Uttering silent words
Staring in the vacuum
It's all empty
Weeps silently
What is it?
Does she recall her childhood?
Or her youth?
Or the middle age?
Well, she's been through it all
All ages.
Do not let go of my hand
Whispers she.
Cheerful faces around her
Getting her back
To, what they say is, Life.
They talk merrily
They cook deliciously
They laugh
All to bring her back from trance.
She does come back.
It's all part of a master plan, they say.
That's Shakespeare's final stage, I say.
