She was lightly made of a shiny dew.
She sang Twilight and Aurora lullabies.
In her, a small sparkle of hope had shone
But, the sparkle, when my story began,
was missing...
She was born in a bud of a rose
Or in a cocoon, no one knows.
She lived in an illusionful flower
Or on a water lily of a silvery river.
She was used every night
To spreading her wings made of light
And her flower to leaving
Only to find outside, a starry evening.
But, she went out of her den, one night
And flew as fast as a dragonfly.
The lunar curve was disturbed
By the beauty of her sad singing.
Blades of grass, blossoms, drops of water
And such moaned about her.
She'd so much suffered from loneliness
In her short life of sadness.
Then, in a last beautiful surge,
In a hidden place, without any grudge,
She made a spark of love fly out
Able then of her life to go out !
Later, while Sun wanted to show her shine,
Night, Silvery Moon, Aurora and Twilight,
From their celestial waves, witnessed
The death of a solitary light of tenderness...
