She wished to be child again
She imagined it all so badly
She was told she was no more a child
Whoever told her so actually murdered her art,
Whereas the man with her remained kid forever
She covered the skies;she felt evenings unsung
I wonder why didn't she then write it down?
Her prints were so deep upon him
If there were not she, he wouldn't be he!
Poetic her ... Prosaic him!
Authoress her, and the written him...
Ah, that's the most mysterious life ever inscribed!
