His true spirit lay by the sound of her voice,
As a bridge stretched between two points,
Its flow rolled backwards from minor to major end,
Rattling each polished pebble that traced her steps,
A cradled echo to the shores of some distant place,
Where winced eyes found not what they so wished,
But that which was there by grace of a genuine gaze,
With songs of rhyme and rhythm nestled in her wake.