She wears tomorrow 
like a tattered coat, borrowed from rain
Hangs on her body like a piece of saggy skin

Her pockets are full of colourful seasons
that refuse to remember dates
Autumn arrives carrying spring's aroma
Winter forgets her own name

Every road greets her warmly as if she,
belonged to them
The dust in her footsteps
carries dreams in purest form

She speaks in silence, long pause
between sentences
She stretches her arms when nobody watches

She carries a white dove,
folded in her scarf
It circles without choosing the sky, nor the cage

One call it freedom, other admires
the flight of its shinning wings
The grace in her becomes a beautiful question

Looking at the horizon
she questions how to arrive.