She wandered around aimlessly amongst the weeping willows
and she was weeping too.
Only you couldn’t see the tears.
She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her veils were transparent,
but you couldn’t see her tears, not really.

But I knew that she wept; I saw it in her form.
A surreal image projected through the mist.
A frail frame bent, looking for what isn’t,
and missing that which is.
That which is the beauty of the woman that she is.
She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her isolation was translucent
but you couldn’t see the tears, not really.

But I knew that she wept; I saw it in her gaze.
A distant glance at nothing,
a frozen glare at pain.
A distant glance at nothing, she said she didn’t see.
A frozen glare at pain, she said she didn’t feel.

She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her face was like a journal disclosing many days.
Many days of wandering
amongst the weeping willows.
She was weeping too, and now I saw the tears.
Rivers joyously cascading
and releasing all her fears.

Many years have come and gone, and she has found her way.
Re-tracing all her footsteps
and what was missed throughout those days.
While looking for what isn’t and missing that which is.
That which is the beauty of the woman that she is.