Her skirt white as silk billowed in the breeze
of fragrance, costly as the boats in the bay,
danced passed me a zephyr of summer love.
Sky blue eyes looked beyond me and far;
a ripple of contented laughter followed her.
She wore an exquisite aroma of splendour,
the holy who don't know the price of bread.
So white her smile, so red her lips.
She entered a Lamborghini, golden-tanned its
driver was, and she was hit by arrows of love.
She sat in her room, her dress crumpled, tears
ran down her rosy chin, she, a seamstress with
a borrowed dress, had flown too near the sun,
a butterfly with broken wings and lost illusion.
