By Elena Pollack
There once was a woman called Arbor,
And all knew she was a martyr.
She suffered in silence,
Not asking for guidance,
In battle, lacking her armor.
My lady was wrought with no gladness,
All she could feel was sadness.
She sobbed and she cried,
Yet she never would hide,
My lady, she was not an actress.
She used to cry out and aloud,
Her sorrow, she never would shroud.
She sobbed and she wept,
And she never had kept,
Her joy, that's what she avowed.
And then, her tears were all gone,
And she seemed to become so withdrawn.
She was bare as a thread,
From her toes to her head,
As if lacking color, were drawn.
She spent a while in deep sorrow,
Not happy today, nor tomorrow.
She shivered and shrieked,
She wavered and creaked,
And in her depression, she wallowed.
And then, one fine day in the spring,
She started to smile and sing.
New life in her world,
More chances unfurled.
Dreams of a future to bring.
Now clothed in beauty, so divine!
From inside she seemed to shine.
Her green hair all twirly,
And ever so girly!
It seemed she had been redefined.
She prayed to the sky, from her heart to the sun,
She laughed all the time, she had so much fun!
She smiled with joy,
Life was her toy.
She danced, she skipped and she spun.
And then, too soon, too late,
The cold seeped in, and the hate.
Her smile soon fell,
A sadness befell,
Her joy was trapped by time's gate.
Her arms turned scarred and broken,
From her lips, not one word was spoken.
Her shoulders did slouch,
Of that, I can vouch,
Her sorrow apparent, awoken.
But hope lingered still, unforgotten,
Of times when she wasn't downtrodden.
When the sun would shine bright,
Birds singing with delight,
When she wouldn't feel lonely and rotten.