Hangs a mirror on the wall of the abode seen
with a demeanour mystic, queer, fine, indiscreet.
Shows it to each who sits in front a stolen sheet,
telling truths revealed to none, a shaming scene.
Oh! The past returns to haunt those who there have been.
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As we speak is seated well a woman worn out,
looking into mirror that and into her past;
Furrows hers have vanished, they appear to not last.
White hair in the mirror is as brown as a mud pot;
Eyes hers charming, face hers graceful, there is no rot.
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Woman that reminded of the glory she had
talks to past self hers through eyes that see now quite well;
Past but comes with thoughts mixed, making her their scents smell.
Seem some pleasant, many foul, rouse views good and bad.
Smiles the woman first, is left nostalgic, then sad.
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Photos hanging on the wall that lie on her left
learn the woman is now of joy and peace bereft.
A comb in her hand, a gown on her body rest,
the lamp in the room brightens all that is left;
And the dame broods on everything once laid to rest.
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