She walks proudly,
like a tigress searching for prey,
she is not at all the girl she used to be.
When she was little she skipped along this street,
heart beating and chest heaving,
her eyes sparkling with love for the world.
She was naive then,
or at least she thinks so now.
She wears the feathers on her hat like a crown,
some would say she’s spoiled,
others may think she’s vain.
Sometimes she looks in the mirrorand wonders who she really is; underneath the polished facade,
beyond the finishing school accent.
People think she hides behind her veil,
but underneath it she is free,
never having to hide her fascination or disgust.
Through it she has spoken words of kindness,
“un café s’il vous plaît” or “excusez-moi monsieur”
but she has not yet whispered of her desires.
At night she dreams,
that her life is a waterfall,
she stands above it,
knowing she must take the leap,
but she never dares to.
If the eyes truly were the windows to the soul,
anyone would see the fire that burns within her,
her wit and sharp spirit.
The only thing people look for in others is beauty
and sometimes that makes her feel invisible.
Call her a bird of paradise in a gilded cage,
a snob if you want,
perhaps even a temptress,
she won’t mind;
she stopped caring long ago.
Your eyes meet hers,
and she keeps walking,