a 19th century whim...a French folk song, if you will...
a woman we know...you can see her beautiful soul...through all the trappings of consciousness...it has to be powerful to shine though all that...
Golden Soul / Blachura
Elle a un âme dorée (She has a golden soul)
Words drip from her lips not a thought does she let slip
From her mind without giving it wings
Her stories the same each time she repeats them like they were rhymes
The sounds echo her whims as they ring
Her mind seems a clutter trying to catch her lips flutter
It’s a race like the sun chasing the moon
Silence she knows barely her tongue stops rarely
Waiting for her soft breath to end soon
And the sun shines through so bold
Her faults so many untold
Her soul is so old fashioned of gold
Her calm demeanor calls
Whether her habits gall or enthrall
Then her golden soul suddenly befalls