She writes endless lists
in her frost-rimmed room
above the crowded market place,
listening to her heartbeat
that is too loud
against the silence of her days.
Crunched papers multiply
on the patterned carpet,
still she scribbles.
Then,
obscured by grimy net curtains,
she stands at the window
watching the bustle beneath.
One day she will go downstairs -
it’s written on her list.



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