Often we heard her whisper clad in tulle apparel;
“Be sword so as to shield the sliding drops of peril.”
The monks who lone observed chant in Greek and Latin;
Their looks were burning slow leaving behind a pattern.
Her dark and beauteous locks blew seldom in the breeze;
And miles she walked upto were ninety five most at ease.
Her heart as though of robin was beating hard and slow;
The air so thick with grief was due to breathing woe.
Upon her grave she offered flowers of cyan blue
That gave the hint of heaven more odor than hue.
Photo credits: www.desktopwallpapers4.me
Posted for Poetics @ dVerse Poets Pub