Living a life behind the iron mask.
She pretends to be a stranger to emotions and tears.
Deep down she's still a damsel with a baby's face,
Who's away from this world's mortals,
For their own goodness sake.
As breaking their hearts unintentionally is what she fears;
Residing on a high tower over the rock fort.
She has imprisoned herself
Behind the bars of bitter memories and despair.
Spending time making conversations.
With her quill she talks to the paper all day
Who listens to her without any complaints;
Sometimes her quill paints a vibgyor.
And at times it bleeds incessantly with pain.
With ink she glues them to paper,
Weaving thoughts together with words and phrases.
Emptying all her thoughts onto plain paper.
She wipes the slate clean with her tears.
After dusk, she sits beside the lone window.
Looking down at the hamlet where the Scribbler resides.
Amidst smoking chimneys and dimly lit lights.
She tries to catch a glimpse if he ever passes by.
Though the distance between is poles apart.
They remain together in prayers and thoughts.
Someday, she'll drop her mask.
And see the light of day.
Set herself free from those shackles and bars.
Descend from the tower to meet this wandering soul.
For this is the Scribbler's wish,
Which will make his life whole.