Forty-seven contemplates her fate,
Old enough to know just what is what,
Revisiting the windings of the way
That led her to this not-unwelcome state,
Yet yearning now and then for what is not.
So does one listen for the lilt of longing
Even when essentially at peace,
Vested in what one knows will decay,
Enduring, dreaming, suffering, desiring.
Nor would one for one's soul such music cease.