If one was to see a lady,
a petit old lady,
her hair the colour of ashphalte,
wrinckles as deep as a conyon,
veins seen from miles away,
short and stout,
bones of a skeleton,
clothes from past centuries,
eyes full of hope.
No matter what one sees,
it's not what she sees,
she thinks she is beautiful,
because in her heart,
she is.
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