She tried to part her hair to the other side,
The opposite of always, the left side,
Yet her long, black curls had their own will
And came back to their place, standing still.

The long, long curves would just disoblige.

So she asked the clear mirror: “Why?
Why such untamed curls, so damn dry?”
And her image answered nothing,
But something could be seen in her eyes.

The reflected image spoke volumes.
(or, at least, it gave a little try…)
Her portrait talked, and so she heard
In a tiny voice, the message of no words:

“Why bother with hair, when, in the inside,
there is this reckless feeling of wild tide?
Why, woman, care about it, a way to part,
when, in the chest, there’s this untamed heart?”


now, your turn!

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