In the shadows of a dead city she stood And waited for the sun to go down. Heidi had been a daughter, a wife, a mother, But never Heidi. She watched the remnants of a long forgotten song Lancing towards her from the medallion above And her heart looked for the listener; The one who had listened to all her prayers. "Now that my road has come to its end, Show me where I can wash these stains Off my broken skin," Heidi whispered When she found the listener, Playing his flute under an ageless tree. "You've come a long way, Heidi," he said, "You were too cautious not to fall, Which made you forget that you could fly." Heidi watched the hills falling in love with The abstrusity in the melodies he wove And said, "The hills look like a dream." "Yes, but a dream you chose to bury, Under the weight of your sins," he said. "You have been all, Heidi - You have been a seed, a plant and a tree But you never danced wit
The prosaic strokes of her brush made her see The truth she had been trying to bury. "I can paint anything, Jim, but you," she whispered. "I have spent too much time trying to paint your eyes, While the real ones watched me from a distance. And like the end of an evanescing dream you faded And became the white of this canvas I cannot fill. Death, like you said, is just another colour from my box. Tell me, why can't my brush find your face? Have I buried the scent of your love too deep Under the stench of my paints? Will this empty canvas never show me your face And calm the storms in my sundry selves? Give me the strength, Jim, to face you again; To look you in the eye and ask if the sun Shines bright on the other side. Help me find The colour of death in my box, so that You can see me, once again, as I paint you."