She was told she was beautiful
like a girl from a renaissance portrait,
limp as a reed and weak as an ivy.
She believed
that she needed to find her prince
mighty and oak-like,
to writhe among the branches,
follow the sun
and sparkle in its golden rays.
The storm has come.
It shattered the great tree,
lightning burned
her magnificent crown
There’s nothing left.
She’s still beautiful
like a lady from an old picture.
She understood that
the wind would not break the reed,
the ivy can climb rocks
and head towards the stars.