" A love poem about the most invisible woman:

The perfect mind, the perfect cover.
I knew her, like… there was no other.
No, I will never, her, forget.
In pure blood - these words are set.
She walks alone now, in my dreams,
where no is never, so it seems.
The night is dark, and near the hour –
to plant a tree, where roses flower.
And then, again, again, once more,
Till hidden is what I adore.
Her heart was pure, and also kind,
And I… should not have acted blind. "

― , Nothing is here...