I have a photo of my grandmother, she looks so
young and beautiful, her hair glossy, but there
is a paleness about her and a sadness in her eyes,
It is as if death has sought her out, cast a net of illness
around her, ready to haul its catch and devour her.
I know little about her, where she came from, was
she an angel that found her way to my grandfather´s
heart, one who became human out of love but knew
she could not stay? When I look in the mirror and ask,
Have I got your eyes? She looks back at me in grief.
I say I know who you are, the lost daughter of Manus
the one he expelled because he found kindness in
your heart? Her eyes, deep as mystery lakes in May,
look at me in silence, but I do see a flicker of an ironic
smile… or was she the lady of the camellias?
I see tears swell in her eyes, depression grips me
as heartache of love betrayed, shall I ever know
who she was… this woman who bore five children
and died at 27. It can't be, so there must be more,
not only this bleak silence of the untold.
