Classic Poem

Silence: it is the lady that trails, wearily,
Of the lady of my Silence, with very gentle step,
Shedding the white lilies of her complexion in the mirror;
Barely convalescent, she watches everything in the distance,
The trees, a passerby, the bridges, a stream,
Where wander the great clouds of daylight,
But who, still too feeble, is suddenly struck
With the tedium of living and a feeling of loathing,
And more subtle, being ill and half-exhausted,
She says: ‘The noise hurts me; have the windows closed…’