Alone,she lives,
with her books,her pens,her papers,she lives.
With her loneliness,her deep loneliness,she lives.

Alone she thinks,
about new poems,she thinks,
about new verses,she thinks,
about new words,commas,points,she still thinks.

Alone she writes,
with her childy atmosphere,she writes,
with her shining look,she writes,
with her softy fingers,like a rose,a red rose,she writes.

Alone she was,
when the storm came,
to visit her,she came,
to put notes on her poems,she came,
to write,with her,deep verses,shiny words,she came
to change the colours of her papers,she came,
to make them red,
like blood of our martyrs,red,
like the sound of revolution,red
like a shy face,red,
like a lost rose,red,
like the colour of love,passion,loyalty written by our painful heart,red,
like a dead poet,who paid his life cause saying the truth,red,
like memories of childhood,red,
memories of passionate days,
memories of pure hearts,
memories of freedom,of calmy days,
when we used to cry when we needed to,
when we used to play when we wanted to,
when we were so pure even when saying:i love u,
no cheating,no lying,just pure,we were children.