When a serenade night...
ticks on the wall clock,
It must be time to spill an ink.
Along with loneliness,
a creative mind whispered,
and the hand inscribe the lines.
If the lines both ends meet,
there goes her memory to create verses...
Her life is writing,
Her message is her soul.
From a thousand shattered pieces,
she laid to find the missing piece.
Above all, she never gave up to tell tales.
And her tales will be remembered,
In a poems, and the inscribes of ink she had.
