The shade of the leaves on the roads
that lead to a way out of here
end up on her as she stays on the swing.
She still has a wreath in her hand,
her peers know well who this is for,
but she will have no chance to give that up.
The sound of her weave tilts her faith,
she pines for a gate to a land
with no dye of brown and no cold of blue.
The time does not have much to add,
the time just picks up those who care
and they let their truths cave to the rue.
She does not seek that line of thought,
since she hunts for her own sense in this plight.
Mitja Lovše is a writer, a performer and a director from Slovenia. He works within the fields of theatre, film, television and literature. He’s still alive.