She held her life in her hands
As though it were a dandelion gone to seed,
And she – a child –
Poised on the precipice of some grand wonderland,
About to make a wish
That would decide the fate of worlds.
Her life – spent Waiting for the bells of war to ring.
Her life – what a pointless, violent thing.
“If the rose withers,” said she,
“Why, my love, can’t we?”