I am no longer beautiful. I was, once. So beautiful. So very, beautiful.
In the spring evenings of my youth, when people looked, at me, when their eyes fell upon me, walking, woman or man, something … overtook them. As if, lifting their heads, anticipating … glass, or traffic, seeing … green. A garden. A rose. Opening.
When I was beautiful, as I once was, when I was so beautiful, there was love – image, I think, more image of love, in the glass world. When I was beautiful, and young, those who perceived me, in the glass of their eye held me, my beauty, and carried it with them, my youth and my beauty, perceiving it, everywhere. A dead tree … became a nursery. I grieve, my loss of beauty not for my own sake, only, but for that of a glass, and a sad world, with little to refract but sadness. My loss, is a larger, loss. In a world of glass. This sadness, my sadness, is a larger sadness.
It is your sadness, as well.