A memory of Ethiopia
She stood at the entrance of the garden.
She was tall, very slim, her skin of dark amber.
She delicately wrapped her long cloth around her, the sound of chimes giving away the presence of a few silver bangles.
She hid her face when she coughed, spitting blood into a handkerchief that had seen better days.
She had torn shoes, torn clothes and a torn heart, but her watery eyes had the shine of a fresh spring.
Then she turned around moving with all the fragility of a dragonfly.
I wish she had entered the garden of silence; maybe the tears would have finally left her eyes.