She was the fruit of the strange mysterious marriage of a
ballerina and a philosopher; of a fleeting loving embrace of
beauty and truth, a transient chime of polarities amidst
fainting worlds.

Her forehead, a stage for shadows, thought´s play; the grace
of her wrists hid royal unpredictability.

Blue, oh! blue was the blood pulsating in her veins that
under her translucent skin formed an enigmatic pattern.
This rhythm, this peace was in her, was her - like an ocean
- fathomless, clear and salty.

Neither did she know herself nor her influence. Wide-eyed,
she looked at her reflection in the sparkle of people´s eyes, in
their rage, in their fear. She existed and that was enough; the
world shimmered through her, moulding the imagery.

Once, at the threshold of night a glance into the revolving
mirror suddenly struck home.
She was a poem.